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THE  ART  OF 
THE  SHORT  STORY 


THE  ART  OF 
THE  SHORT  STORY 


BY 
CARL  H.   GRABO 

Instructor  in  English,  the  University  of  CbicafO 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


COFYKIGHT,  1913,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

I 


PREFACE 

The  principles  of  narrative  structure  which  I 
have  set  down  here  are  for  the  most  part  true  of 
the  novel  as  well  as  of  the  short  story,  though  for 
conciseness  and  clearness  I  have  discussed  their 
application  chiefly  to  the  latter.  They  are, 
most  of  them,  commonly  enough  held,  though  in 
my  college  work  I  have  felt  the  need  of  a  book 
which  should  collect  and  relate  them  in  simple, 
orderly,  and  yet  comprehensive  fashion.  The 
material  is  scattered,  and  the  amateur  writer 
cannot  easily  find  it. 

For  other  than  commonplace  and  accepted 
principles  of  structure  I  have  relied  chiefly  on 
Stevenson,  whose  letters  and  essays  are  filled 
with  comments  of  technical  interest  to  writers. 
It  is  unfortunate  that  he  never  wrote  his  promised 
work,  a  "small  and  arid  book"  upon  the  art  of 
fiction.  Most  of  my  indebtedness  to  Stevenson 
is  specifically  acknowledged  in  the  following 
pages. 

The  method  of  the  book  is  in  part  based  upon 
Poe's  The  Philosophy  of  Composition.    In  this 


vi  PREFACE 

he  traces  the  development  of  The  Raven,  making 
clear  the  steps  of  the  creative  process.  Unfor- 
tunately he  did  not  perform  a  like  office  for  his 
short  stories,  an  analysis  which  would  have  been 
even  more  valuable.  There  is  curiously  little 
material  upon  the  psychology  of  story  composi- 
tion, the  very  thing  which  the  beginner  most 
needs,  for  he  is  too  often  of  the  opinion  that  the 
men  he  seeks  to  emulate  work  by  mental  proc- 
esses too  mysterious  and  profound  for  his  under- 
standing. There  are  invaluable  hints — if  skilled 
writers  would  but  give  them — which  might  save 
the  beginner  much  time  and  mistaken  effort  and 
as  well  inspire  him  with  some  small  confidence 
in  the  methods  which  he  pursues,  whatever  his 
despair  at  the  immediate  results  thereof. 

Could  I  analyze  the  masterpieces  of  the  short 
story  with  certainty  and  exactness,  so  that  their 
inception  and  development  might  be  made  clear 
and  explicit,  I  should  rely  upon  them  alone  to 
illustrate  the  mental  processes  of  story  writing. 
But  so  exact  an  analysis  is  possible  only  to  the 
author.  I  have,  therefore,  in  addition  to  quot- 
ing from  Stevenson,  Poe,  and  Henry  James,  en- 
deavored from  my  own  experimental  knowledge 
to  analyze  the  way  in  which  the  mind  seeks 
and  selects  a  story  idea  and  then  proceeds  to 
develop  it.  I  trust  that  what  I  have  found  true 
of  my  experience  may  be  of  some  value  to  others 


PREFACE  vii 

who  are  seeking  to  learn  the  difficult  art  of 
working  effectively  at  story  composition. 

I  am  greatly  indebted  to  the  following  mem- 
bers of  the  English  department  of  the  University 
of  Chicago  for  helpful  criticism  and  advice:  Mrs. 
Edith  Foster  Flint,  Mr.  Robert  M.  Lovett,  and 
Mr.  James  W.  Linn. 


CONTENTS 

CBAPISR  PAGE 

I.    The  Short  Story i 

II.    The  Essentials  of  Narrative  .  _.  6 

III.    The  Point  of  View   ..._...  21 

rV.    The  Unities  of  Action,  Time,  and 

Place -37 

V.    Exposition  and  Preparation      .    .  65 

VI.    Introductions.    The  Order  of  Nar- 
ration      96 

VII.    Character-Drawing 115 

VIII.    Description  OF  Person  AND  Place    .  143 

DC.    Dialogue 175 

X.    Types  of  Story  Ideas 198 

XI.    Titles  and  Names 214 

XII.    Suggestion  and  Restraint     .    .    ,  227 

XIII.    Unity  of  Tone 244 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

CBAPTKR  PAGX 

XIV.    The  Psychology  of  Story  Writing  265 

XV.    Conclusion 284 

Appendix:   Poe's  "The  Philosophy 

OF  Composition" 295 

Index 313 


THE  ART  OF 
THE  SHORT  STORY 


THE  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  SHORT  STORY 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  to  define 
the  short  story  as  a  distinct  form  of  narrative, 
much  as  a  sonnet  may  be  characterized  as  a 
verse  form  conspicuously  different  from  the 
ballad  and  the  ode.  But  though  every  one 
knows  in  a  general  way  what  a  short  story  is,  no 
single  definition  as  yet  devised  has  proved  suffi- 
ciently precise  to  win  universal  acceptance. 
The  reasons  for  this  failure  will  be  worth  noting 
at  the  outset  of  our  discussion  of  short-story 
technic. 

It  is  impossible,  in  the  first  instance,  to  state 
exactly  what  is  meant  by  *' short."  We  have  no 
difficulty  in  classing  the  Odyssey  as  a  long  story, 
an  epic,  or  Vanity  Fair  as  a  novel.  In  compari- 
son with  these,  the  tales  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
or  the  stories  of  Maupassant  are  relatively  short. 
Yet  we  may  not  define  a  ''short  story"  as  a  fic- 
titious prose  narrative  of  five,  or  ten,  or  fifteen 


ART'  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 


thcusand  woriis,  for  what,  in  that  case,  shall  we 
say  of  a  story  of  sixteen  thousand  words?  Must 
this  be  called  by  another  name,  a  "novelette," 
perhaps?  To  draw  so  hard  and  fast  a  line  is  ob- 
viously unsafe.  Nor  is  the  difficulty  less  if  we 
define  a  "short  story"  as  one  which  may  be  read 
at  a  sitting,  for  we  read  at  varying  speeds,  and  a 
'* sitting"  may  be  two  hours  or  four.  The  char- 
acteristic, shortness,  is  a  relative,  not  a  fixed, 
attribute,  and  upon  it  we  cannot  frame  a  defini- 
tion of  the  "short  story." 

We  encounter  equal  difficulty  if  we  endeavor 
to  base  our  definition  upon  some  distinctive 
peculiarity  of  form  whereby  a  "short  story" 
may  be  differentiated  from  other  types  of  short 
narrative,  such  as  the  "tale"  and  the  "allegory." 
Rip  Van  Winkle  is  usually  classed  as  a  tale. 
We  feel  readily  that  it  differs  somewhat  from 
the  short  story  as  practised  by  Kipling  and 
Maupassant.  Yet  there  are  many  points  of  re- 
semblance, too,  and  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
construct  a  brief  and  intelligible  definition  which 
shall  make  the  distinction  clear.  Literary  classi- 
fications are  not  like  those  of  chemical  elements, 
distinct  and  sharply  drawn.  A  truer  analogy 
would  be  that  of  a  gradation  of  colors.  This 
color,  we  say,  without  hesitation,  is  green;  that 
blue.  But  not  always  can  we  be  so  sure.  There 
are  colors  which  partake  of  both,  and  which  we 


THE  SHORT  STORY  3 

may  call  blue-green,  or  greenish-blue,  or  by  a 
specific  name  which  more  or  less  loosely  defines  a 
color  commingled  of  the  two.  Thus  it  is  with 
the  forms  of  fiction.  It  is  almost  impossible  to 
tell  at  what  point  one  type  begins,  and  another 
ends,  for  they  have  many  elements  in  common; 
the  structural  principles  of  one  resemble  too 
closely  the  structural  principles  of  a  seconds 
Only  when  the  contrast  is  extreme  is  a  clear  dis- 
tinction easy. 

A  more  profitable  method  whereby  to  approach 
the  difficulty  is  to  consider  the  analogy  of  the 
novel.  The  earlier  forms  of  fictitious  narrative 
from  which  the  novel  has  been  developed  need 
not  concern  us  here.  We  should  note  merely 
that  various  novelists,  each  with  the  work  of  his 
predecessors  as  a  vantage-ground,  have  developed 
the  possibilities  of  the  novel  as  a  form  of  prose 
fiction;  have  improved  its  technic  and  defined 
its  field  so  that  at  last  we  have  a  fairly  clear  idea 
of  what  a  novel  is.  Experiments,  failures,  and 
half -successes  have  made  clear  what  the  novelist 
may  and  may  not  attempt  with  a  reasonable 
prospect  of  success. 

Of  shorter  fictitious  narratives  much  the  same 
is  true.  Only  by  repeated  experiment  have  cer- 
tain of  the  possibilities  of  the  form  been  revealed 
■ — as  yet  not  all  of  them,  we  may  well  believe. 
And,  while  the  potentialities  of  the  form  have 


4         ART   OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

been  indicated,  so,  too,  have  been  its  limitations. 
Nowadays  the  skilled  writer  decides,  before  set- 
ting pen  to  paper,  at  what  length  and  in  what 
form  he  may  best  express  his  idea,  for  he  knows 
that  some  of  the  resources  of  the  novel  are  denied 
the  short  story;  and,  conversely,  that  an  idea 
effectively  clothed  in  the  shorter  form  may  not 
suffice  for  the  more  elaborate  development  de- 
manded in  the  novel. 

Between  novels  and  short  stories  the  difference 
in  technic  is,  at  bottom,  dependent  almost  solely 
upon  the  length  of  the  narrative.  In  two  thou- 
sand words  I  shall  not,  obviously,  be  able  to  do 
what  George  Eliot,  in  Middlemarchy  has  done  in 
two  hundred  thousand.  I  should  be  foolish  to  try. 
But  what  is  true  of  stories  so  discrepant  in 
length  as  two  thousand  and  two  hundred  thou- 
sand words  is  true  in  lesser  degree  of  stories  two 
and  five  thousand  words  long,  though  both  may, 
in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  term,  be  "short 
stories."  That  there  are  structural  principles 
true  of  one  form  of  fiction  and  not  of  another  we 
may  not  safely  declare.  Certain  principles  true 
of  all  narratives,  long  and  short,  there  are,  and 
at  these  we  can  arrive.  We  may  also  recognize 
structural  difficulties  which  bear  with  increasing 
weight  upon  the  writer  as  he  attempts  an  ever 
shorter  form.  But  we  are  wise  if  we  do  not  make 
our  theories  too  inelastic. 


THE  SHORT  STORY  5 

The  study  of  the  technic  of  the  short  story 
is  nothing  more  than  the  critical  analysis  of  ex- 
periments made  in  the  shorter  forms  of  narrative. 
From  this  analysis  emerges  a  body  of  generaliza- 
tions which  will  guide  the  writer  in  the  effective 
development  of  his  idea — that  is,  a  technic.  At 
the  end  of  our  study  it  may  perhaps  be  pos- 
sible to  summarize  results  in  a  fashion  sufficiently 
concise  to  serve  as  a  definition  of  the  short-story 
jrbrm,  but  to  attempt  such  definition  at  the  outset 
would  be  unprofitable.  We  need  first  to  under^ 
stand  the  narrative  principles  true  of  all  storieSj^ 
long  and  short.  Then  we  may  consider  more 
minutely  those  structural  principles  which  are 
increasingly  significant  as  the  story  form  be- 
comes shorter. 


^  y^ 


X<^^^"^'^-  '  K^J^ 


CHAPTER  n 
THE  ESSENTIALS  OF  NARRATIV^E 

There  are,  then,  certain  structural  principles 
true  of  all  stories,  alike  short  and  long.  These 
we  should  understand  before  we  seek  to  define 
more  particularly  the  essentials  of  short  fiction. 
We  should  learn  first  what  a  story  is;  and  this 
demands  that  we  explain  the  meaning  of  narra- 
tive, for  a  story  is  only  fictitious  narrative,  narra- 
tive imaginatively  constructed  to  produce  a  de- 
sired effect. 

Narrative  we  may  loosely  define  as  a  record. 
in  words,  of  experience.  Thus  history  and  bi- 
ography are  narratives  no  less  than  the  stories 
of  Poe.  The  term  is  broad  and  inclusive.  Let 
us  trace  the  steps  by  which  we  may  develop  one 
of  the  simpler  narrative  forms,  the  autobiog- 
raphy. 

Th£_i:ibig_ct  of  an  autobiography  is  jto_  record 
^interesting  and  significant  experiences.  This 
purpose  is,  in  reality,  twofold.  The  incidents  of 
his  life  being  of  interest  to  the  writer,  they  may, 
first  of  all,  interest  you  as  well,  for  through  the 
6 


ESSENTIALS  OF  NARRATIVE         7 

imagination  you  are  able  to  re-create,  less  vividly 
to  be  sure,  the  accidents  which  have  befallen 
him.  These  experiences  have,  however,  been 
more  than  interesting  of  themselves;  they  have 
affected  and  moulded  him,  made  him  what  he  is. 
You,  following  them,  become,  in  some  sort,  ac- 
quainted with  his  personality.  He  is,  in  a  sense, 
the  hero  of  a  true  story,  and  you  trace  his  for- 
tunes with  some  degree  of  concern.  But  how 
does  he  select  from  his  many  experiences  those 
which  are  interesting  and  important  only,  for  he 
cannot  tell  everything  he  does  and  feels.  Even 
Boswell's  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson^  long  as  it  is,  fails 
to  record  everything  Johnson  did  and  said. 
Johnson  himself  could  not  have  told  all;  much  of 
it  he  would  have  forgotten. 

Memory  it  is  that  first  sifts  our  experiences. 
Were"  one  to  keep  a  diary  m  which  each  night  he 
put  down  the  events  of  the  day,  memory  would 
see  to  it  that  his  journal  was  not  too  full.  He 
would  not  remember  a  tenth  of  his  sensations. 
Many  of  them  would  be  so  familiar  or  so  trivial 
as  to  pass  unheeded.  Yet  there  would  be  many 
left,  the  record  of  which  would  serve  as  the  story 
of  the  day.  Each  day  he  would  accumulate 
more,  and  in  the  course  of  years  an  immense 
quantity.  So  vast  would  the  collection  become 
that  with  his  future  autobiography  in  mind,  he 
would  soon  reaHze  that,  for  the  sake  of  his  read- 


8        ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

ers,  a  discriminating  selection  was  imperative. 
Deliberately,  therefore,  he  would  reread  his 
diary,  to  cull  from  it  only  the  best — the  most  in- 
teresting, and  the  most  significant. 

As  he  rereads  his  diary  the  writer  is  imme- 
diately struck  with  an  important  fact:  many  of 
the  incidents  there  narrated  are  highly  uninter- 
esting to  him  now,  though  indubitably  he  once 
thought  them  of  importance.  They  neither  pos- 
sess any  enduring  quality  of  interest,  nor  are 
they  of  any  significance  in  the  light  of  after 
events.  They  resemble,  indeed,  many  passages 
in  the  diary  of  the  garrulous  Pepys:  they  are 
but  evidence  of  the  petty  concerns  with  which, 
for  the  most  part,  our  lives  have  to  do. 

He  is  surprised,  on  the  other  hand,  to  note  but 
brief  mention  of  an  incident  which  he  now  thinks 
vastly  more  important  than  many  another  told 
at  greater  length.  Wherein  does  his  later  judg- 
ment differ  from  the  former?  The  difference  lies 
here:  the  incident,  unimportant  at  the  time,  is 
truly  significant  by  reason  of  its  relation  to  sub- 
sequent incidents  of  importance.  It  may  have 
been  the  introduction  to  a  stranger  who  is  now 
an  intimate  friend;  to  an  enemy  who  has  since 
injured  him;  to  the  girl  who  is  now  his  wife. 
He  did  not  know  the  potentialities  of  the  incident 
at  the  time.  Now  he  perceives  its  vast  sig- 
nificance. 


ESSENTIALS  OF  NARRATIVE         9 

As  he  turns  the  pages  he  may  chance  here  and 
there  upon  entries  which  hnk  themselves  together 
in  chains.  On  this  day  he  met  again  the  woman 
who  is  his  wife.  He  was  impressed  by  her 
beauty  or  her  inteUigence.  Again,  he  called 
upon  her,  or  they  met  at  the  house  of  a  friend. 
From  week  to  week  he  can  trace  the  growth  of 
his  romance.  He  is  struck  by  the  fact  that  it 
constitutes  a  story,  one  of  the  many  stories, 
broken  or  complete,  which  make  up  the  sum  of 
his  life. 

I  have  employed  the  term  ''story"  as  one  ap- 
propriate  to  such  a  chain  of  related  incidents  as 
I-have  outlined.  What,  then,  is  the  distinguish- 
ing  character  of  a  story?  To  grasp  its  essentials, 
lef^us  take  for  analysis  some  story  which  has 
been  universally  known  for  a  long  time,  and 
which,  therefore,  is  presumably  good,  that  is, 
artistic.  I  shall  briefly  summarize  the  chief  in- 
cidents of  Cinderella.  • ■ 

Cinderella  is  the  beautiful  and  virtuous 
daughter  of  a  widower  who  seeks  to  forget  his 
loneliness  by  marrying  a  widow.  The  widow's 
two  daughters,  less  beautiful  and  good  than 
Cinderella,  are  jealous  of  her  and  abuse  her. 
The  stepmother,  also,  because  of  them,  is  hard 
upon  the  girl,  and  makes  her  the  household 
drudge.  Cinderella's  lot  is  a  sad  one,  for,  while 
her  stepsisters  are  enjoying  themselves  at  balls, 


lo   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

she  is  without  fine  clothes,  and  pleasures,  and 
attention. 

It  happens  that  the  king  of  the  land  is  to  give 
a  great  ball  to  which  all  the  young  ladies  of 
position  are  invited,  for  from  among  them  the 
prince,  his  son,  will  make  choice  of  a  bride. 
Cinderella  would  like  to  go,  but  she  is  without 
the  fine  clothes  necessary.  On  the  night  of  the 
ball  she  remains  at  home  and  bewails  her  fate. 
As  she  is  thus  sorrowful,  her  fairy  godmother  ap- 
pears, inquires  the  cause  of  Cinderella's  grief, 
and  comforts  her  by  transforming  her  rags  to  a 
beautiful  ball-dress  and  her  worn  shoes  to 
crystal  slippers.  She  also  provides  a  coach  and 
four  in  which  Cinderella  may  attend  the  ball, 
warning  her,  however,  to  leave  the  ballroom 
before  the  last  stroke  of  midnight,  since  the 
charm  has  potency  no  further.  Promising  to 
heed  the  warning,  Cinderella  departs,  attracts 
the  attention  of  the  prince,  and  dances  with  him 
throughout  the  evening.  At  the  stroke  of 
twelve  she  recalls  the  fairy's  warning,  and  es- 
capes hastily,  in  her  flight  leaving  behind  one  of 
the  crystal  slippers,  which  the  prince  finds  and 
keeps.  Cinderella,  arriving  home  in  rags,  there 
awaits  her  sisters  and  their  account  of  the  ball. 

The  prince,  the  next  day,  begins  his  search  for 
the  maid  of  the  crystal  slipper,  whom  he  has 
vowed  to  marry.     The  couriers  who  endeavor 


ESSENTIALS  OF  NARRATIVE       ii 

to  find  her  whom  the  slipper  fits  come  at  last 
to  the  home  of  Cinderella.  After  her  sisters  try 
the  slipper  unsuccessfully,  Cinderella  is  called 
from  the  kitchen.  The  slipper  goes  on  easily, 
and  as  her  sisters  stare,  incredulous,  the  fairy 
godmother  appears  and  transforms  Cinderella's 
rags  to  rich  and  appropriate  garments.  Cinder- 
ella marries  the  prince  and  forgives  her  cruel 
sisters. 

In  this  outline  of  incidents  there  are  several 
salient  characteristics.  It  differs  from  a  biog- 
raphy of  Cinderella,  first,  in  that  it  is  far  less 
ambitious.  Of  the  many  things  which  might  be 
told  of  the  heroine  only  a  few  have  been  selected 
for  the  story.  Selection  of  incident  is  the  first 
characteristic.  But  in  a  biography  there  was, 
we  found,  selection  of  a  sort.  The  difference 
Hes  in  this:  the  purpose  is  unHke  in  the  two 
cases.  Were  I  to  write  a  life  of  Cinderella,  I 
should  select  the  incidents  which  best  revealed 
the  varied  aspects  of  her  character.  In  the  story 
of  the  crystal  slipper  not  only  is  the  purpose  less 
ambitious,  but  it  is  also  different  in  kind.  We 
are  interested  in  Cinderella's  character  only  in- 
cidentally. Our  true  interest  is  in  the  solution 
of^her  difficulties.  We  wisti  to  know  what  the 
end  of  the  narrative  is  to  be,  and  look  forward 
to  it  eagerly.  This  is  the  first  important  differ- 
ence to  note  in  our  comparison  of  biography  or 


12   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

autobiography  and  a  story.  In  the  one  our  sole 
concern  is  with  the  revelation  of  character.  In 
the  other  we  are  concerned  only  incidentally  with 
the  character  and  much  with  the  fate  of  the  char- 
acter— that  is,  the  outcome  of  the  compHcation 
of  events  which  we  call  the  story.  Because  the 
author's  purpose  differs  in  the  two  cases,  his 
selection  of  incident  for  the  accomplishment  of 
that  purpose  differs  also. 

In  the  story  the  author  is  concerned  with  the 
/^outcome,  and  has  it  in  mind  before  he  puts  peji 
"^^S^  to  paper;  it  follows  that,  if  he  is  skilful,  he  will 
^^^    include  only  such  incidents  as  advance  the  story 
K     to  that  end.     So,  in  Cinderella^  we  learned  noth- 
ing of  the  heroine's  girlhood,  or  of  any  traits  of 
character  other  than  those  necessary  to  make 
the  story  intelligible  and  interesting.   In  a  biog- 
raphy of  Cinderella  we  should  ask  far  more  than 
is  given  here.     We  should  ask  to  know  her  as 
an  individual  different  from  all  other  girls  in  the 
world.    As  it  is,  she  is  conventional,  possessed 
only  of  beauty,  virtue,  and  patience  under  af- 
fliction. 

Not  only  would  the  addition  of  any  further 
detail  to  the  story  be  superfluous,  but  conversely, 
every  incident  as  told  may  be  proved  vital  to 
the  intelligibility  of  the  action.  None  may  be 
omitted  without  making  the  progress  of  the 
story  to  its  objective  point — that  is,  the  happi- 


J 


ESSENTIALS  OF  NARRATIVE       13 

ness  of  Cinderella  and  her  marriage  to  the  prince 
— to  some  degree,  however  slight,  obscure. 
Were  we,  for  instance,  to  omit  all  mention  of 
the  loss  of  the  slipper,  the  whole  conclusion  of 
the  story  would  be  distorted.  Possession  of  the 
slipper  is  essential  to  the  prince's  search.  We 
may  set  it  down  as  an  axiom  that  in  the  best 
stories  no  incident  can  be  omitted  without  mar- 
ring the  even  progress  of  the  story  to  its  goal. 
The  fact  that  the  story  of  Cinderella  is  so  mem- 
orable that  one  cannot  easily  forget  any  of  its 
details  is  sufficient  proof  that  it  is  well  con- 
structed, that  it  contains  neither  too  much  nor 
too  little — the  ideal  of  selection  in  story  writing. 

But  the  incidents  of  our  story  bear  not  only 
each  one  upon  the  objective  point;  they  have,  as 
well,  a  relation  one  to  another,  so  that  were  we  to 
change  their  order  of  recital  in  any  instance,  we 
should  again  injure  our  narrative.  These  inci- 
dents are,  indeed,  virtually  but  a  series  of  causes 
and  effects,  and  observe  the  relation  of  cause  and 
effect  in  external  nature.  Because  of  her  loneli- 
ness, Cinderella  weeps;  because  of  her  grief,  the 
fairy  appears  and  waves  her  magic  wand;  because 
of  her  transformation,  Cinderella  attends  the  ball 
—and  so  to  the  end  of  the  story. 

This  vital  relation  of  incident  to  incident  is 
in  marked  contrast  to  the  events  of  real  life, 
wherein  between  any  two  related  incidents  may 


14   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Dccur  a  host  of  unrelated  and  irrelevant  things. 
Even  in  the  autobiography  previously  cited, 
only  careful  selection  made  possible  any  such 
grouping  of  associated  incidents,  and  these 
groups  we  found  were  but  a  small  part  of  our 
Kves,  stories  embedded  in  our  life's  experiences. 


Fig.  I.    Incidents  of  Biography 


A  graphic  illustration  may  serve  to  make  clear 
this  fundamental  difference  between  a  story  and 
the  incidents  of  life  as  told  in  a  biography. 
"iTThe  incidents  of  the  biography  have  a  rela- 
tion one  to  another  chiefly  as  they  centre  in  a 
common  personality,   the  I.     From   this   they 
radiate  as  do  the  spokes  of  a  wheel.     Their  rela-v 
tion  is  chronological.     Certain  of  the  incidents] 
may  have  a  secondary  or  story  relation,  as,  ioxJ 


ESSENTIALS   OF  NARRATIVE       15 

(example,  incidents  2,  4,  and  6,  with  unrelated 
incidents  coming  between.  These  secondary 
groupings  are  stories  in  the  rough,  though  it 
would  be  well  to  note  that,  seeming  to  lead 
somewhere,  they  have  usually  no  clear  objec- 
tive point. 


I  >       2  > 


3  > 


4  >    I    >  Objective  point. 


Fig.  2.    Incidents  of  a  Story 

JP  The  incidents  of  a  story,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  like  the  links  of  a  chain:  incident  i  is  the 
cause  of  incident  2,  which  in  turn  causes  3,  and 
all  march  resolutely  to  a  definite  and  predeter- 
mined end.  They  are  selected  for  this  specific 
purpose.  Whereas  in  a  biography  the  relation 
of  incidents  was  chronological  only,  here  it  is 
both  chronological  and  logical. 

The  observing  will  have  noted  a  seeming 
contradiction  to  the  statement  that  all  the  in- 
cidents of  Cinderella  carried  the  heroine  on  to 
marriage  and  happiness.  Some  of  the  incidents 
seem  indeed  hostile  to  that  end.  There  is  that 
almost  fatal  forgetfulness  of  the  fairy  god- 
mother's warning,  and,  again,  the  delay  in  try- 
ing on  the  slipper.  We  had  thought  the  goal 
in  sight,  and  the  girl  in  full  sail  for  happiness, 
when  these  misfortunes  gave  us  a  momentary 
qualm,  a  qualm  only,  for  we  had  all  the  while  a 


i6   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

deep-seated  conviction  that  she  would  pull 
through.  It  was  as  though  the  author  had  de- 
liberately set  up  difficulties  for  the  fun  of  har- 
rowing our  emotions.  That  it  is  he  has  done, 
and  he  has  had  a  legitimate  purpose  in  so 
doing. 

Were  Cinderella's  path  too  smooth  we  should 
not  be  so  interested  in  her  fate  as  we  now  are 
when  it  is  bestrewn  with  obstacles.  At  the  out- 
set the  author  has  cunningly  enHsted  our  sym- 
pathies in  her  behalf  by  picturing  her  as  beauty 
and  virtue  in  distress.  He  has  intimated  a  pos- 
sible amelioration  of  her  lot,  and  then  he  has 
played  with  us,  worked  on  our  susceptible  emo- 
tions by  pretending  that  he  will  not  relieve  her 
situation  after  all.  But  in  so  doing  he  has  inter- 
ested and  pleased  us — his  object  all  along.  He 
well  knows  that  the  very  suspense  and  imcer- 
tainty  he  has  aroused  is  a  pleasurable  emotion, 
one  which  can  scarcely  be  too  intense.  We  read 
the  story  to  experience  that  emotion  and  should 
consider  him  a  poor  author  if  he  failed  to  arouse 
it.  Yet  though  he  has  done  all  this,  he  has  in 
no  place  departed  from  the  logic  of  his  story. 
The  forgotten  warning  and  the  loss  of  the  slipper, 
which  seemed  for  the  moment  fatal,  turn  out  to 
be  the  very  means  by  which  the  prince  is  enabled 
to  rediscover  Cinderella  and  claim  her.  Thus 
the  writer  has  secured  his  suspense  legitimately 


ESSENTIALS  OF  NARRATIVE       17 

and  logically.  In  no  case  does  he  violate  the 
rules  of  the  game. 

It  will  be  noted  that  the  uncertainty  created 
by  the  pull  of  seemingly  hostile  incidents  carried 
the  story  to  a  pitch  of  interest,  after  which  the 
contest  wavered  for  an  instant,  and  then  set 
definitely  to  an  unmistakable  conclusion.  At 
this  point,  confident  of  the  outcome,  we  relaxed 
somewhat,  though  still  curious  to  know  the  final 
incidents.  Were  the  author  too  slow  in  con- 
cluding the  story  we  might  become  bored. 

The  incidents  which  align  themselves  as  favor- 
able and  hostile  to  the  outcome  of  the  story 
have  been  called  the  positive  and  the  negative 
forces.  All,  it  must  be  remembered,  do  really 
advance  the  story,  but  some  seem  not  to  do  so. 
<rhose  which  openly  help  it  to  its  goal  are  the 
positive  forces;  those  which  seem  to  retard  it 
are  termed  the  negative  forces.  The  contest  is 
usually  thought  of  as  an  upward  slope  or  climax, 
tne  crest  of  which^is  the  turning-point.  Beyond 
the  turning-point,  or  crest,  is  a  sharp  descent, 
at  the  bottom  of  which  lies  the  conclusion. 

Not  always  is  the  pull  of  forces  which  creates 
and  holds  interest  so  easy  of  analysis  as  in  Cin- 
derella. Examine,  for  instance,  Poe's  famous 
story.  The  Cask  of  Amontillado.  The  motive  of 
the  narrator-hero  of  the  tale  is  revenge.  Noth- 
ing in  any  way  hinders  him  in  the  accompHsh- 


i8   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

ment  of  his  purpose.  The  victim  is  easily 
trapped,  and  goes  unwittingly  to  his  doom. 
What,  we  may  ask,  are  the  negative  or  retarding 
ibrces  in  a  course  of  action  so  direct  and  undevi- 
ating?  The  answer  is  not  difficult.  Incident 
after  incident  of  increasing  grewsomeness  flatters 
the  reader  to  anguished  curiosity.  Some  hor- 
rible culminating  catastrophe  there  must  be, 
and  the  mind  is  on  the  rack  until  the  solution 
is  disclosed.  The  delays  which  whet  and  sus- 
tain curiosity,  the  record  of  trivial  but  significant 
incidents,  serve  to  create  suspense.  The  emo- 
tion here  is  not  concerned  with  the  fate  of  the 
doomed  man,  for  that  is  certain.  Our  interest 
is  solely  with  the  manner  of  his  end.  The  emo- 
tion, though  far  more  intense  than  that  we  ex- 
perienced in  Cinderella,  is  much  the  same  in  kind. 
Suspense  is  created  in  a  somewhat  different  fash- 
ion, that  is  all. 

It  may  be  objected  that  not  all  stories  illus- 
trate so  obviously  as  those  we  have  selected  a 
conflict  of  forces.  The  negative  incidents  may, 
at  times,  be  few  and  weak,  and  the  flow  of  action 
sluggish,  inadequate  to  arouse  in  the  reader  any 
great  curiosity  as  to  the  story's  outcome.  In 
stories  of  this  type  we  shall  later  find  compen- 
sating qualities  of  characterization  or  intellectual 
content.  It  will  suffice  at  this  point  to  indicate 
the  general  need  in  story-construction  of  well- 


ESSENTIALS  OF  NARRATIVE       19 

balanced  and  strongly  opposed  forces.  This 
need  is  greatest  in  those  stories  in  which  the 
reader's  interest  is  with  the  action,  the  play  of 
incident.  In  a  tale  of  adventure  we  should  be 
bored  were  the  hero  too  seldom  in  hazardous 
and  uncertain  situations. 

Again  and  again  the  amateur  writer  will  be 
forced  to  a  reconsideration  of  these  fundamental 
principles  of  story  construction.  Particularly 
must  he  come  to  a  realization  of  the  essential 
logic  of  narrative.  If  any  incident  of  his  story 
may  be  omitted  without  breaking  the  vital  se- 
quence of  cause  and  effect,  that  incident  must 
go.  If  any  incident  is  without  its  rational 
cause,  that  cause  must  be  suppHed.  Herein  Hes 
the  difference  between  fiction  and  life.  In  life 
we  are  plunged  into  a  welter  of  experiences, 
many  without  relation  one  to  another.  We 
suffer  what  we  call  accidents,  things  unpre- 
dictable. In  a  story  we  must  have  no  accidents 
.i2r__happenings. unprepared  for.  Every  incident 
is  anticipated  by  its  stated  cause  if  we  have  but 
eyes  to  see.*  Life,  in  a  storv,  is  rationalized, 
logical;  it  is,  in  short,  art. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  bring  home  this  distinc- 
tion more  emphatically.  Perhaps  it  may  be 
well  to  put  it  in  other  terms.     In  a  story  it  is 

*  See  Chapter  V,  "  Exposition  and  Preparation,"  for  a 
further  discussion  of  this  point. 


^ 


20   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

of  no  importance  that  the  incidents  did  or  did 
not  happen  to  a  real  person.  Thby  must  seem 
true,  be  rational,  logical.  One  m^y  take  up  a 
newspaper  any  day  and  find  in  it  true  stories 
which  are  incredible.  With  these  the  story- 
writer  has  nothing  to  do.  Young  writers  find 
difficulty  in  grasping  this  vital  distinction.  "A 
true  story,"  they  remark  parenthetical^,  and 
from  the  phrase  the  experienced  reader  antic- 
ipates a  shock  to  his  credulity.  The  ourden 
of  explanation  is  thrown  upon  that  enigmatical 
force — life.  The  skilled  writer  takes  from  life 
y  his  materials,  but  these  he  arranges  in  a  more 
rational  order  than  life  sees  fit  to  do.  To  his 
problem  there  must  be  an  answer  at  which  he 
may  arrive  by  logical  processes  of  thought,  as 
does  the  mathematician.  To  him  two  and  two 
must  make  four.  If  in  life  they  sometimes  seem 
to  make  five,  that  is  no  concern  of  his. 


CHAPTER  in  ^ 

THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

vl 

Thi7  author  who  has  mentally  blocked  out  his 
story/  determined  definitely  its  objective  point, 
and  selected  some,  if  not  all,  of  the  incidents 
which  shall  comprise  the  action,  is  confronted, 
before  proceeding  farther,  with  the  problem  of 
the  point  of  view.  Justwhat  is  meant  by  the 
phrase?  In  simple  terms  we  may  put  the  ques- 
tion thus:  who  is  to  be  the  supposed  narrator 
of  the  story?  We  say  of  a  story  that  it  is  written 
from  the  point  of  view  of  a  participaiit^j^f  an 
observer,  or  of  the  author;  that  is,  it  is  seen 
through  the  eyes  of  one  of  these.  We  must 
consider  the  disadvantages  and  advantages  to 
the  story  of  one  or  another  of  these  points  of 
view.  Our  range  of  selection  is  really  wider  than 
at  first  sight  we  should  deem  possible. 

The  simplest  and  most  obvious  point  of  view 
is  thatof  the  chief  participant.  The  story  cen- 
txfig  m  him;  he  was  concerned  in  all  the  impor- 
tant incidents.  Thus  we  may  imagine  Cinder- 
ella recounting  to  her  grandchildren  the  romantic 


22   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

tale  of  her  youth,  the  story  of  the  crystal  slipper. 
It  is  from  this  point  of  view  that  many  of  the 
world's  famous  stories,  both  long  and  short,  have 
been  written.  To  mention  but  a  few  at  random, 
there  are  in  English  such  novels,  as  David  Copper- 
fieldf  Lorna  Doone,  Jane  Eyre^  Treasure  Island, 
and  Robinson  Crusoe.  Many  of  Poe's  short 
stories,  such  as  The  Cask  of  Amontillado,  already 
cited  in  another  connection.  The  Black  Cat,  and 
The  Telltale  Heart,  are  written  from  this  point 
of  view.  A  fine  modern  illustration  (slightly 
modified  by  the  author)  is  Joseph  Conrad's 
Youth.  In  the  work  of  almost  any  voluminous 
writer  of  short  fiction  one  may  find  examples  of 
stories  in  this  manner,  though  some  writers  have 
far  more  predilection  for  it  than  have  others.  Let 
us  see  what  are  its  advantages  and  limitations. 
Its  chief  advantage,  I  think,  is  that  it  carries 
j^O  with  it  a  certain  plausibility.  It  resembles  in 
form,  autobiography,  and,  if  it  is  well  managed, 
the  reader  is  apt  to  accept  the  story  as  true,  a 
fragment  of  real  life.  John  Ridd  is  as  real  to 
me  as  many  a  person  I  have  known,  for  I  first 
read  Lorna  Doone  at  an  age  when  one  readily 
surrenders  his  imagination  to  an  engaging  tale. 
This  reahty  with  which  the  author  has  endowed 
his  story  is  due  in  considerable  part  to  his  choice 
of  the  hero  as  the  supposed  narrator  of  events. 
Had  the  author  told  these  in  his  own  person,  the 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  23 

action  would  have  been  at  a  further  remove, 
and  so,  perhaps,  less  real.  Robinson  Crusoe  ap- 
peals in  like  fashion.  The  prosaic  Robinson  is 
one  hard  to  disbeHeve,  despite  the  surprising 
nature  of  his  experiences.  Almost  we  forget  we 
are  reading  a  romance,  and  not  a  page  of  auto- 
biography. 

Yet,  plausible  as  it  is,  and  frequent  as  is  its 
employment,  the  method  is  fraught  with  dangers 
and  limitations.     The  narrator,  if  the  hero  and 
doer  of  brave  deeds,  must  excite  our  admiration 
and   respect.     He   should   not   appear   unduly 
boastful  in  telHng  his  own  exploits,  or  we  shall 
have  small  use  for  him.     On  the  other  hand,  if 
his  deeds  are  evil,  as  in  the  case  of  the  narrator- 
actor  of  TIte  Cask  of  Amontillado,  we  must  not 
be  repelled,  but  find  his  personality  fascinating, 
if  not  admirable.     The  author's  problem  is  two- 
•1    fold :  to  tell  the  incidents  of  the  story  effectively, 
i,\  and,  as  well,  so  skilfully  to  delineate  the  char- 
"^    acter  of  the  narrator  that  our  interest  will  be 
held  throughout. 

There  are  yet  other  difficulties.  The  actor- 
narrator  can  tell  only  those  events  which  can 
reasonably  come  within  his  experience,  or  be 
told  him  by  some  one  else.  If  the  action  is 
complicated,  trouble  will  inevitably  arise  here. 
Some  event  significant  in  the  action  of  the  story 
is  witnessed  by  another  than  the  hero,  and  at 


24   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

some  place  remote  from  him.  He  could  not 
possibly  see  it  himself.  How,  then,  is  the  reader 
to  be  informed  of  it,  and  the  story  made  intel- 
ligible? The  author,  to  give  us  the  necessary 
information,  is  forced  to  the  employment  of 
various  devices,  such  as  messengers  and  letters, 
and  weakens  thereby  the  vividness  of  his  story. 
More  often  he  will  outrage  plausibility,  and  take 
his  hero  upon  wild  and  inexplicable  journeys, 
simply  that  the  narrator  may  be  on  the  spot 
when  something  important  happens. 

In  Treasure  Island,  Stevenson  at  one  point 
meets  the  difficulty  which  his  choice  of  a  point 
of  view  involves,  by  adopting  for  a  time  another 
point  of  view  altogether.  Jim  Hawkins  has 
stolen  away  from  camp  on  adventures  of  his 
own.  Meanwhile  events  happen  with  which 
we  must  be  acquainted.  To  tell  of  these  the 
author  drops  the  boy  hero  for  a  time  and  gives 
us  the  Doctor's  narrative  of  events  in  the  camp. 
Later  he  returns  to  the  story  of  Jim  Hawkins. 

TjigjDoint  of  view  her^^  ilhictrated,  that  of  a 
composite  narr^ive  told  by  various  actors  in 
the  story,  will  be  better  appreciated  if  we  con- 
sider the  novels  of  Richardson.  Clarissa  Ear- 
lowe  is  told  entirely  in  le*^*'*'"  ^'"rm.  The  various 
actors  of  the  story  reveal  their  experiences  by 
letters  to  one  another,  some  of  great  length. 
If  we  may  suppose  all  the  characters  confirmed 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  25 

letter-writers,  there  are  certain  excellences  in 
this  method.  Every  incident  is  told  with  ful- 
ness of  detail  by  a  participant  and  eye-witness. 
Moreover,  there  is  a  fine  opportunity  here  to 
differentiate  character.  This  same  incident  may 
be  variously  reported  by  several  witnesses, 
and  in  the  discrepancies  may  be  laid  bare  funda- 
mental differences  of  personality.  But  it  is  a 
method  obviously  lacking  in  conciseness,  and  so 
almost  certainly  unfitted  for  short  narratives. 
It  is  conceivable  that  a  short  story  might  be 
told  by  an  exchange  of  letters,  and,  indeed,  a 
few  stories  so  written  may  be  found,  but  it  is  a 
method  unlikely  to  be  often  successful,  in  part 
for  reasons  which  will  be  apparent  as  we  pro- 
ceed. Meanwhile  we  may  note  that  the  com- 
posite narrative,  though  infrequent,  is  some- 
times employed  in  the  novel.  Detective  stories 
often  resort  to  it.  We  have  the  hero's  narra- 
tive, the  heroine's  narrative,  that  of  the  butler, 
the  nurse,  and  the  doctor.  Wilkie  Collins  em- 
ployed the  device  frequently,  as  in  the  Moon^ 
stone,  and  Stevenson  in  The  Master  of  Ballantrae. 
Closely  akin  to  the  point  of  view  of  the  chief 
actor  or  the  combined  points  of  view  of  various 
actors  is  that  of  the  minor  character  who, 
though  given  a  small  part  in  the  story,  serves 
chiefly  as  an  observer  of  events.  This  device  of 
story-telling  involves,  usually,  most  of  the  de- 


26   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

fects  of  the  points  of  view  previously  consid- 
ered, and  yet  achieves  few  compensating  virtues. 
The  tedious  Watson  of  Conan  Doyle's  detective 
stories  is  an  admirable  example  of  this.  He 
must  be  present  at  all  the  chief  episodes  of  the 
story,  and  what  he  cannot  himself  witness  he 
must  learn  from  the  hero.  He  must  be  suffi-i 
ciently  stupid  not  to  anticipate  the  correct] 
solution  of  the  mystery,  and  his  personality/ 
must  be  so  colorless  as  not  to  divert  our  atten-y 
tion  from  more  important  characters.  The 
reader  tolerates  him  only  of  necessity.  It  is 
doubtful  if  the  stories  gain  sufficiently  in  credi- 
bility and  naturalness  to  compensate  for  these 
defects.  That  is  not  to  say  that  this  point  of 
view  is  impossible,  for  one  might  readily  find 
excellent  examples  of  its  employment.  Th(; 
Little  Minister  is  told  from  this  point  of  view. 
Turgenieff  resorts  to  it,  and  Balzac.  But  it  is 
at  best  a  leisurely  and  awkward  method  of  nar- 
ration, and  the  writer  should  carefully  weigh 
its  defects  before  employing  it  in  any  instance. 
It  should  be  noted  that  all  points  of  view  are 
mere  devices  by  virtue  of  which  the  story  comes 
to  be.  They  are  conventions  which  readers  ac- 
cept as  they  do  a  three-sided  room  upon  the 
stage.  By  reason  of  conventions  only  is  any 
art  possible.  They  are  limitations  upon  that 
art,  but  none  the  less  a  means  to  its  accomplish- 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  27 

merit.  No  one  criticises  a  picture  because  it  is 
painted  with  pigments  upon  canvas  rather  than 
with  sunlight  upon  trees  and  water.  No  more 
does  the  reader  criticise  the  adoption  of  any 
point  of  view  the  author  may  choose,  provided 
that  point  of  view  does  not  obstruct  the  story. 

This  would  appear  self-evident.  Yet  to  many, 
apparently,  it  is  not.  Amateur  writers  frequently 
hesitate  to  tell  their  stories  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  author.  *'How  can  it  be  that  I,  the 
author,  know  all  these  things?"  they  ask.  "I 
must  trick  my  reader  to  the  belief  that  some 
one  has  told  me  this,  that  I  am  in  possession  of 
some  other's  manuscript."  The  reader  goes  to 
no  such  bother.  "  Give  us  the  story,"  says  he, 
*'and  with  as  little  delay  as  possible."  For  this 
reason  the  point  of  view  of  the  author  is  usually 
the  most  swift  and  least  awkward  of  all  methods 
of  story-telling.     Just  what  is  it? 

In  Cinderella  some  anonymous  person  in  pos- 
session of  all  the  facts  recounts  the  tale  for  the 
benefit  of  the  reader.  It  is  as  though  a  disem- 
bodied personality  or  some  one  clothed  in  the 
mantle  of  invisibility  of  fairy  lore  were  an  eye- 
witness to  all  the  important  incidents.  The 
author  can  observe  happenings  at  widely  remote 
points  and  times  as  well  as  here  and  now.  He 
knows  what  occurs  simultaneously  at  separated 
places.     He  is,  in  short,  omniscient. 


28   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Complete  omniscience  includes  the  ability  to 
see  into  the  hearts  of  characters  and  lay  bare 
their  secret  motives.  Novelists  whose  interest 
is  chiefly  character  analysis,  usually  adopt  this 
point  of  view.  Not  only  do  they  present  their 
creatures  in  speech  and  action,  but  they  reveal 
also  the  hidden  processes  of  thought  and  emo- 
tion. The  method  is  justified  to  the  reader  in 
so  far  as  the  analysis  proves  interesting  and  en- 
lightening. We  make  no  question  of  the  author's 
assumption  of  insight,  but  we  may  justly  criti- 
cise the  result  for  its  truth  to  human  nature  as 
we  know  it. 

The  author  may,  however,  if  he  choose,  make 
no  pretension  to  godlike  powers  of  omniscience. 
He  may,  instead,  content  himself  with  a  record 
of  deed  and  word  by  means  of  which  we  shaD 
ourselves  come  to  an  understanding  of  character. 
Ostensibly  the  author  is,  in  such  a  case,  scarcely 
more  than  a  sensitized  recording  instrument 
which  turns  back  the  flight  of  time  and  reveals 
to  us  the  sense-impressions  of  a  past  scene. 
When  the  author  pretends  to  insight  we  say  he 
is  omniscient.  When  he  Hmits  himself  to  purely 
human  powers  of  observation,  though  possessed, 
if  need  be,  of  seven-league  boots  and  the  power 
of  invisibility,  we  call  him  the  author-observant. 
These  are  the  two  points  of  view  of  the  author, 
and  before  we  consider  any  subtle  variants  upon 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  29 

them  we  should  consider  the  possibilities  and 
limitations  of  each. 

The  omniscient  point  of  view  includes  the 
lesser  or  merely  observant.  The  author  not 
only  sees  but  explains.  It  is  a  method  well 
adapted  to  stories  of  psychological  interest  in 
which  the  dissection  of  motive  is  important. 
Writers  upon  ethical  problems,  such,  for  exam- 
ple, as  George  Eliot,  depend  largely  upon  it. 
George  Meredith  and  Thomas  Hardy,  of  modern 
novelists,  write  usually  from  this  point  of  view. 
But  not  only  must  the  author  analyze  effectively, 
he  must  also  make  his  characters  act  and  speak 
appropriately.  To  be  sure,  his  power  of  inter- 
pretation permits  him  to  make  speech  and  action 
which  in  themselves  seem  but  colorless  and 
trivial,  significant  of  something  more  profound. 
Yet  the  problem  is,  nevertheless,  considerable. 
No  action  or  word  may  be  without  its  reason- 
able and  characteristic  implication.  If  well  con- 
trived, the  two,  action  and  analysis,  are  comple- 
mentary and  mutually  illuminating,  and  the 
reader  feels  a  genuine  intimacy  of  understanding. 
Its  limitation  is  that  it  demands,  usually,  rather 
more  space  than  the  purely  objective  method  of 
the  author-observant,  and  its  passages  of  analysis 
may  easily  become  tedious.  Many  readers  pre- 
fer speech  and  action  solely,  and  are  content 
therefrom  to  draw  their  own  interpretations. 


30   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

To  such  readers  the  observant  or  objective 
method  is  preferable.  The  term  "objective" 
means  simply  that  the  narrative  shall  concern 
itself  solely  with  sense-impressions — word,  deed, 
and  the  various  appeals  to  sense  which  we  in- 
clude under  the  term  '*  description."  This  in  dis- 
tinction from  the  "subjective"  method,  which 
includes  analysis.  Objective  narrative  is  anal- 
ogous to  the  drama.  In  a  play  we  see  a  story 
acted  out  by  the  dramatist's  creations.  From 
their  speech  and  action  we  get  not  only  a  story, 
but  also  knowledge  of  them  as  persons,  and  some 
suggestion  of  motive.  The  writer  has  here  to 
do  a  difficult  thing;  he  must  make  his  puppets 
reveal  themselves.  Everything  they  say  and 
do  must  be  in  character. .  This  implies,  really, 
that  he  know  the  motives  which  prompt  them 
to  word  and  deed.  They  will  not,  otherwise,  be 
uniformly  consistent  and,  so,  convincing.  And 
it  is  a  difficult  thing  to  make  action  and  speech 
always  significant,  for  oftentimes  two  or  more 
interpretations  are  possible  unless  we  are  very 
sure  of  the  actor's  intent.  Also,  in  common 
speech,  it  is  not  easy  so  to  dififerentiate  characters 
that  they  seem  individual.  But  this  the  author 
must  do,  for  he  has  cut  himself  off  from  the  help 
of  analysis.  He  has  so  limited  himself,  of  course, 
in  the  belief  that  the  gain  is  greater  than  the 
loss;  that  his  story  will  move  the  faster  and  with 


THE   POINT  OF  VIEW  31 

a  greater  effect  of  reality;  that  the  reader  may 
not  be  bored  by  the  author's  own  interpretations. 

The  analogy  of  this  method  to  that  of  the 
drama  is  further  borne  out  if  we  consider  the 
author  not  only  as  playwright,  but  also  stage- 
manager  and  audience.  In  a  play  there  are 
certain  accessories  known  as  setting.  In  a  story 
the  author-observant  describes  circumstances  of 
place  and  dress  to  aid  our  visualization  of  the 
scene.  Further,  he  may  describe  the  groupings 
of  his  characters,  the  play  of  feature,  tones  of 
voice — those  things  in  short  which  the  spectator 
at  a  play  gets  for  himself  by  watching  the  actors- 

That  the  point  of  view  of  the  author-observant; 
is  a  popular  one  in  modern  fiction  is  apparent 
If  well  handled,  it  is  particularly  adapted,  by 
reason  of  its  swiftness,  to  the  short  story.  It; 
produces  the  maximum  of  effect  in  the  minimum 
of  space.  This  we  may  assume  without  discus- 
sion to  be  a  highly  desirable  characteristic  of 
short  narratives. 

We  cannot,  however,  dismiss  the  problem  of 
the  point  of  view  without  some  further  comment. 
There  are  variations  of  method  within  the  field 
already  outlined.  Suppose,  for  illustration,  that 
the  writer  wishes  to  be  in  part,  but  not  wholly, 
omniscient;  that  is,  he  may  desire  to  reveal  one 
character  analytically  and  all  others  objectively. 
There  may  be  advantages  in  this  method.    The 


32   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

rt;ader  in  such  a  case  will  view  the  story  through 
the  eyes  of  the  character  so  interpreted,  gaining 
not  only  the  necessary  record  of  story-action,  but 
in  addition  an  understanding  of  the  motives  of 
one  of  the  participants.  He  will  put  himself  in 
the  place  of  the  character  analyzed,  and  experi- 
ence, vicariously,  not  only  his  emotions,  but  also 
his  speculations  as  to  the  motives  which  prompt 
other  characters  in  the  story  to  action.  Appar- 
ently this  method  has  in  it  something  of  the 
illusion  of  reality  which  we  noted  in  the  case  of 
the  story  told  by  a  participant;  but  this  accom- 
panied by  a  detachment  which  makes  possible 
our  understanding  of  the  character  as  the  author 
sees  him.  A  fine  illustration  of  the  method  is 
to  be  found  in  the  two  novels  of  Arnold  Bennett, 
Clayhanger  and  Hilda  Lessways,  in  which  much 
the  same  series  of  incidents  is  viewed  first  through 
the  character  of  the  hero,  and  then  through  that 
of  the  heroine.  In  each  case  we  look  into  the 
character  as  though  we  analyzed  our  own  mo- 
tives. It  is  an  interesting  point  of  view,  and 
one  admirably  adapted  to  much  short  fiction. 

Again  observe  the  method  of  Hawthorne  in 
The  Scarlet  Letter.  The  author  is  here  omniscient 
only  at  times.  Into  some  characters  he  sees 
deeply;  of  others  he  professes  often  to  be  uncer- 
tain, and  is  merely  observant.  The  reason  for 
this  self-imposed  limitation  is  that,  despite  his 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  33 

general  desire  to  dissect  character,  he  wishes  to 
surround  his  story  with  an  atmosphere  of  mys- 
tery. If  he  revealed  clearly  every  hidden  motive 
the  result  would  be  too  obvious.  As  it  is,  we  see 
but  a  part  and  guess  the  rest.  The  chief  charm 
of  the  book  is  that  it  provokes  to  speculation.  It 
is  suggestive:  that  is,  it  induces  the  reader  to 
think  and  collaborate  with  the  author.* 

One  further  point  and  we  have  done  for  the 
moment  with  the  point  of  view.  Many  authors, 
omniscient  and  observant,  boldly  take  the  stage 
and  comment  upon  their  characters,  the  story, 
or  upon  life  in  general.  An  author  thus  obtru- 
sive we  like  in  so  far  as  he  entertains  or  en- 
lightens us.  Thackeray  is  one  of  the  most 
obtrusive  authors  in  English  fiction.  Openly 
he  discusses  his  ''puppets,"  or  anything  the 
story  suggests,  and  many  readers  find  in  this 
mannerism  one  of  the  chief  charms  of  his  books. 
Jane  Austen,  on  the  contrary,  remains  always 
unobtrusively  in  the  background,  letting  the 
story  tell  itself.  There  are  various  middle 
grounds.  An  omniscient  author  usually  intrudes 
to  some  degree  upon  his  reader's  attention,  and 
an  author-observant  may  do  so  if  he  choose. 
Fielding,  who  in  Tom  Jones  keeps  himself  well 
out  of  the  story  as  it  runs,  permits  himself  occa- 
sional short  interchapters  of  personal  comment. 

*  See  Chapter  XII,  "  Suggestion  and  Restraint." 


34   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

These,  he  advises  the  reader,  may  be  omitted 
without  detriment  to  the  story.  The  modern 
tendency  is  generally  in  the  direction  of  self- 
effacement.  The  author  tells  his  story  imper- 
sonally, and  if  he  comments  at  all  upon  it  does  so 
in  casual  remarks  of  not  too  individual  a  tone — 
generalizations  in  keeping  with  the  theme,  and 
such  as  the  reader  might  himself  give  utterance 
to.  There  is,  however,  no  reason  at  all  why  an 
author  should  refrain  from  gossip  upon  his  own 
story  if  he  is  certain  his  readers  will  enjoy  his 
comment.  It  is  the  uncertainty  as  to  their  at- 
titude that  deters.  The  author's  personality 
must  be  of  interest,  must  enrich  his  story,  if  it 
is  to  be  tolerated.  The  modest  author,  recogniz- 
ing the  obligation,  is  therefore  slow  to  intrude. 

In  conclusion,  we  may  say  that,  important  as 
is  the  choice  of  a  point  of  view  in  any  story,  it 
is  yet  more  important  that  the  one  selected  be 
undeviatingly  maintained.  A  shift  of  the  point 
of  view  is  certain  to  modify  the  character  of  the 
story  and  to  bewilder  the  reader,  as  the  shift  at 
the  end  of  the  third  chapter  of  The  Old  Curiosity 
Shop  well  illustrates.  The  skilful  writer  indi- 
cates at  the  outset  the  point  of  view  he  has 
adopted,  and  never  departs  from  it.  A  change 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  author-omniscient 
to  that  of  the  actor-narrator  would,  it  is  obvious, 
be   bewildering.    The   entire   story   would   be 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  35 

changed.  Less  flagrant  shifts  are  equally  repre- 
hensible. The  clearness  of  the  story  is  thereby 
clouded  and  its  effectiveness  impaired. 

The  Centre  of  Interest 

Closely  related  to  the  problem  of  the  point  of 
view  is  that  of  the  centre  of  interest.  A  story 
may  tell  the  fortunes  of  a  group  of  characters, 
yet  of  these  but  one  or  two  will  be  of  superlative 
interest  and  importance.  Upon  them  the  author ' 
concentrates  his  attention.  These  it  is  which  the 
reader  follows  with  the  most  concern,  and  it  is 
essential  that  they  be  always  dominant.  Other 
characters  are  of  importance  chiefly  as  they  affect 
these  major  characters.  For  the  writer  to  shift 
the  spot-light  of  his  attention  to  the  lesser  char- 
acters is  to  invite  disaster,  for  the  reader's  in- 
terest becomes  then  divided  and  so  weakened. 
The  effect  is  to  make  the  story's  emphasis  un- 
certain, if  not  indeed  to  make  two  or  more  stories 
of  what  should  be  but  one.  The  chief  characters 
must  hold  the  centre  of  the  stage  from  the  first, 
and  the  story's  action  should  never  necessitate 
their  withdrawal  from  it  for  any  length  of  time. 
To  them  should  fall  the  best  lines  and  the  most 
interesting  experiences. 

In  a  long  novel  the  author  may,  it  is  true, 
divide  his  attention  somewhat  and  drive  several 
related    stories    four-in-hand — as    do    Dickens, 


36   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

George  Eliot,  and  Thackeray.  The  shorter  the 
story  the  greater  the  necessity  for  concentration, 
so  that  in  a  truly  "  short"  story  but  one  character, 
or  at  the  most  two  closely  related  characters, 
should  focus  our  attention.  With  every  division 
and  dissipation  of  interest  follows  an  inevitable 
weakening  of  effect.  An  examination  of  the 
recognized  masterpieces  of  short-story  writing 
will  show  this  to  be  true.  The  point  is,  however, 
one  to  be  considered  again  in  the  next  chapter, 
under  the  head  of  unity  of  action.  We  note  here 
the  close  association  of  the  centre  of  interest 
with  the  point  of  view,  and  at  times  its  depend- 
ence upon  it.  Thus,  if  the  writer  is  omniscient 
in  the  case  of  but  one  of  his  characters,  and  of 
the  rest  merely  observant,  he  is  almost  certain 
to  keep  the  one  constantly  before  us.  If  he  is 
observant  or  omniscient  of  all,  he  is  sometimes 
tempted  to  side  issues  which  distract  his  atten- 
tion from  the  true  centre  of  interest.  Whatever 
his  point  of  view,  he  will,  if  he  is  wise,  select  the 
central  figure  of  his  story  and  keep  that  character 
always  uppermost  in  our  attention. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  UNITIES  OF  ACTION,  TIME 
AND  PLACE 

The  discussion  of  narrative  principles  has  up 
to  this  point  been  alike  applicable  to  stories  long 
and  short.  In  either,  any  incident  should  be 
vitally  related  both  to  its  antecedent  and  con- 
sequent. Again  there  must  always  be  choice  of 
a  point  of  view  best  suited  to  the  character  of 
the  individual  story.  But  as  we  turn  more  par- 
ticularly to  the  technic  of  short  fiction,  we  dis- 
cover Hmitations  both  of  subject  and  method 
which  present  problems  somewhat  different  from 
those  of  the  novelist.  These  we  must  now  con- 
sider. 

That  the  reader  shall  derive  the  maximum  of 
interest  with  the  minimum  of  attention  we  may 
assume  to  be  an  ideal  of  all  writing.  The  reader 
wishes  entertainment,  identification  of  himself 
mth  imaginary  characters  and  their  fortunes, 
but  this  easily,  without  conscious  effort.  The 
writer  must,  therefore,  determine  what  he  may 
attempt  with  reasonable  likelihood  of  success 
37 


38   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

within  the  space  granted  him,  and,  conversely, 
what  is  certain  to  be  a  failure. 

A  highly  unprofitable  and  hazardous  theme 
for  a  short  story  is,  for  example,  t^e  development 
of  a  character  through  a  considerable  period  of 
time.  Tolstoy's  Resurrection  and  Fielding's  Tom 
Jones,  utterly  different  as  they  are,  have  this 
common  purpose — but  these  are  long  novels. 
Perhaps  the  larger  part  of  character  novels  are 
devoted  to  this  problem  of  development,  the 
slow  modification  of  a  personaHty  by  the  acci- 
dents of  existence.  To  treat  of  this  effectively 
requires  ample  room.  As  the  action  of  time  is 
slow  and  seldom  revolutionary  in  its  immediate 
effect,  so  must  the  writer  have  space  in  which  to 
record  with  deliberateness  the  series  of  incidents 
which,  singly  trivial,  are  in  the  aggregate  of  vast 
effect;  so  that,  at  the  end  of  the  story  a  character 
may  be  far  other  than  at  first,  yet  the  change  be 
so  gradual  as  to  excite  not  incredulity,  but 
acceptance. 

In  a  few  thousand  words  a  character  cannot 
be  so  developed  with  any  degree  of  convincing- 
ness, for  the  simple  reason  that  there  is  insuffi- 
cient room  for  the  necessary  detail.  The  skilful  | 
writer  seizes  instead  upon  some  one  series  of/ 
incidents  which  leads  to  a  crisis  of  character 
development.  Whereas  the  entire  life  of  a  man 
is  a  series  of  crises,  the  theme  for  a  short  story  is, 


THE  UNITIES  39 

most  effectively,  but  one  of  these.  This  may 
be  treated  with  the  fuhless  of  detail  adequate 
to  its  delineation  were  it  but  one  of  many  in  a 
longer  narrative.  The  writer  merely  eliminates 
what  precedes  and  follows  this  group  of  incidents. 
And  though  he  hmits  his  field  he  gains  thereby 
in  concentration  and  emotional  intensity.  These 
virtues,  were  his  selection  less  exacting,  he  would 
be  almost  certain  to  lose. 

His  scenes  then,  if  of  character,  must  not  be 
those  necessitating  slow  development  over  a 
long  period,  but  instead  be  significant  turning- 
points — significant  in  that  the  character  makes 
some  decision  or  enters  upon  some  new  relation 
which  alters  the  course  of  his  life. )  The  decision 
may  be  momentous  or  trivial  as  the  nature  of 
the  story  may  demand;  this  is  technically  un- 
important. But  it  is  highly  important  that  the 
writer  carefully  limit  his  selection  of  incidents 
to  those  which  will  make  the  turning-point  fully 
intelligible,  but  no  more.  The  principle  is,  again, 
that  of  selection;  art  and  cunning  are  revealed 
in  the  rejection  of  the  superfluous.  This  selec- 
tion becomes  increasingly  exacting  as  the  space 
which  the  author  aims  to  fill  becomes  less. 

Consider,  as  an  illustration,  Stevenson's  story, 
Markheim.  The  theme  is  a  crisis  in  the  life  of  a 
weak  man — one  doomed  to  failure.  The  author 
has  selected  that  group  of  incidents  which  in- 


40   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

volves  the  character  in  murder,  and  then  leads 
him  to  a  recognition  of  his  true  self  and  to  con- 
fession. The  story,  because  of  its  shortness,  can 
make  no  attempt,  as  would  a  longer  story,  to 
trace  the  slow  disintegration  of  character  to  the 
point  with  which,  in  this  story,  we  begin.  With 
these  earlier  steps  of  his  downward  career  we 
have  no  concern  save  as  they  are  suggested  in  the 
delineation  of  character  necessary  to  make  the 
man  intelligible  to  us.  The  incidents  relating 
to  his  crime  and  confession  are,  however,  told 
with  great  fulness.  We  must  have  insight  into 
the  man's  psychology  if  the  new  conditions  of 
life  which  he  faces  are  to  be  convincing.  But, 
once  he  is  set  unmistakably  on  the  new  path, 
the  story  is  done.  Our  imaginations  may  supply 
supplementary  details,  but  with  these  the  author 
is  not  concerned. 

Such  a  turning-point  in  character  development 
may  well  be  likened  to  a  crossroads.  The  man 
has  been  proceeding  on  a  straight  road  for  some 
time  past;  at  the  crossroads  he  hesitates,  and 
his  choice  of  possible  paths  is  fraught  with  mo- 
ment. It  is  in  the  immediate  decision  that  we 
are  interested;  for,  though  this  involve  but  the 
slighter  afifairs  of  life,  it  is  important  by  reason 
of  the  significance  which  the  choice  of  direction 
implies. 

We   may   generalize,  JJien,  thus   much:  the 


THE  UNITIES  41 

shorter  the  series  of  vitally  related  incidents  in- 
volving a  crisis  of  character,  the  shorter  the 
space  in  which  we  may  convincingly  portray 
that  crisis.  In  a  story  of  two  or  three  thousand 
words  the  incidents  must  be  few  indeed;  in  five 
thousand  words  we  may  do  more. 

Limited  as  must  be  our  choice  of  incidents  re- 
lating to  a  single  character,  it  follows  that  we 
can  scarcely  portray  in  a  brief  narrative  two  or  1 
more  decisions  or  turning-points  of  either  one  or  \ 
more  characters.  The  first  difficulty  is  one  of 
space,  as  we  have  seen.  Equally  vital  is  a  sec- 
ond, that  of  divided  attention.  Economy  of  the 
reader's  interest  demands  that  we  tell  but  one 
story  at  a  time.  To  divide  our  space  between 
two  crises  or  two  characters  is  to  dissipate  the 
interest  in  either.  This  is  true  to  some  degree, 
also,  in  longer  works  of  fiction;  but  there  the 
division  of  attention  is  in  part  compensated  by 
the  possibility  of  greater  individual  development 
both  of  character  and  situation.  The  long  novel  ' 
may  properly  be  regarded  as  a  group  of  related 
stories,  each  of  interest  in  itself,  and  taking  on 
new  significance  by  their  relation  one  to  another. 
In  a  short  narrative  there  is  possibility  neither 
of  so  great  individual  elaboration  nor  of  the  sig- 
nificance due  to  correlation. 

We  demand  in  a  short  story  unity  of  action.  / 
It  should  concern  itself  with  some  crisis,  some 


42   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

turning-point  in  the  life  of  a  single  character. 
Though  this  crisis  may,  it  is  true,  involve  others 
to  a  lesser  degree,  still  it  is  primarily  the  story 
of  one  person  and  only  incidentally  includes  oth- 
ers as  tEey  affect  him. 

This  definition  of  imity  of  action  is,  however, 
misleading  in  so  far  as  we  have  spoken  solely 
in  terms  of  character.  In  many  stories  character 
is  of  minor  importance,  and  our  interest  is 
mainly  in  the  incidents  themselves.  The  prin- 
ciple here  is  none  the  less  binding.  Let  us  con- 
sider Poe's  famous  story,  The  Gold  Bug. 

Though  The  Gold  Bug  is  commonly  regarded 
as  a  masterpiece,  and  though  it  is,  undoubtedly, 
a  vivid  and  compeUing  story,  I  am  not  sure  but 
there  is  a  rather  pronounced  flaw  in  its  construc- 
tion. My  reason  for  so  thinking  is  this.  In 
casting  about  for  a  suitable  illustration  of  unity 
of  action,  my  mind  reverted  to  this  story.  It 
is,  I  remembered,  a  capital  tale  of  adventure  in 
which  the  decipherment  of  a  parchment  leads 
to  the  discovery  of  buried  treasure.  I  recalled 
the  treasure  hunt  vividly,  particularly  that  grew- 
some  detail  of  the  skull  nailed  to  the  Hmb  of 
the  tree,  and  the  gold  bug  which  the  negro 
dropped  through  the  eye-socket.  A  capital, 
highly  unified  yarn!  But  when  I  turned  to  Poe, 
what  was  my  surprise  to  find  that  the  recovery 
of  the  treasure  comes  at  a  point  considerably 


THE  UNITIES  43 

prior  to  the  end  of  the  story.  What  follows  has 
to  do  with  the  means  whereby  the  mysterious 
parchment  was  deciphered.  To  Poe  the  story 
was  primarily  a  mystery  story;  his  interest  lay 
in  the  solution  of  the  problem.  To  me,  the 
reader,  the  interest  lies  chiefly  in  the  adventure. 

Is  the  story,  then,  unified?  To  me  it  seems 
two  stories,  inseparably  bound  up,  to  be  sure, 
but  none  the  less  in  so  far  distinct  that  my  in- 
terest flags  once  the  treasure  is  found.  Suppose, 
then,  that  the  order  of  narration  were  reversed, 
and  the  parchment  deciphered  for  us  as  prepara- 
tion for  the  treasure  hunt.  Were  this  the  case, 
the  solution  of  the  mystery  would  be  but  a  step 
to  the  treasure;  there  would  be  no  sense  of  anti- 
climax. Poe,  to  whom  mysteries,  problems,  and 
cryptograms  afforded  the  keenest  joy,  reversed 
what  to  me  seems  the  true  narrative  order  for 
the  purpose  of  heightening  our  interest  in  the 
riddle;  and  in  so  doing  he  has  made  two  stories 
of  what  is  but  one,  and  so  has  dulled  our  interest 
in  the  second. 

Whether  or  not  you  agree  with  me  in  this 
judgment,  the  point  raised  illustrates  what  is 
meant  by  unity  of  action  in  a  story  of  incident. 
We  may  derive  further  illustrations  from  the 
same  story.  Suppose  that  Poe,  after  the  modern 
manner,  had  sought  to  add  a  love-affair.  The 
simplicity  of  his  story  would  then  have  become 


44   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

obscured,  for  our  interest  would  have  been  dis- 
tracted somewhat  from  mystery  and  adventure. 
You  will  observe  that  Poe  is  careful  to  avoid  any 
such  mistake.  Moreover,  though  the  story  is 
told  by  a  minor  participant  in  the  action,  we 
know  little  about  him.  Our  attention  is  riveted 
to  the  one  chief  character  and  his  adventures. 
Note,  too,  that  characterization  and  background 
are  permitted  but  minor  parts,  for  the  story's 
concern  is  with  action.  To  emphasize  these 
would  again  be  to  disconcert  us. 

This  unity  of  action  of  which  we  speak  is 
really  nothing  more  than  a  form  of  simplicity 
born  of  singleness  of  purpose.  Illustrated  in  a 
good  story  (we  may  cite  again  The  Cask  of  Amon- 
tillado) it  is  obvious  enough.  In  actual  story- 
construction  it  is  not  so  easy  to  put  into  practice. 
To  excise  superfluous  incidents  conceived  in  the 
fine  vividness  of  imagination  and  in  themselves 
entertaining,  is  a  task  calling  for  some  heroism 
and  much  clear-sightedness.  It  is  an  obligation 
the  beginner  finds  most  difficult.  He  is  perhaps 
enamoured  of  decorative  details  and  unable  to 
appreciate  the  beauty  of  a  naked  simplicity. 
Thus  he  clutters  the  simple  machinery  of  his 
tale  with  superfluous  incident — related  to  the 
action,  to  be  sure,  and  interesting,  but,  in  the 
highest  sense,  irrelevant.  In  so  doing  he  fails 
to  achieve  a  true  unity. 


THE  UNITIES  45 


Unity  of  Time 


The  necessity  of  economizing  the  reader's  at- 
tention gives  rise  also  to  the  problem  of  time. 
How  long  a  period  should  the  action  of  a  story 
cover?  We  can  lay  down  no  absolute  rule,  but  ^ 
can  say  promptly  the  shortest  time  compatible  ; 
with  the  effective  narration  of  the  necessary  in-  ■ 
cidents.  The  reason  is  not  hard  to  discover.  1 
If  between  incidents  two  and  three  of  my  story/ 
there  intervenes  the  space  of  a  year,  my  reader 
will  find  it  difficult  to  conceive  those  incidents  to 
be  vitally  related.  Both  experience  and  imagi- 
nation teU  him  that  the  vitality  of  any  incident 
is  weakened  by  the  passage  of  so  long  a  time. 
The  most  absorbing  episode  of  a  year  ago  is  to 
him  now  of  lesser  consequence  than  many  an  ex- 
perience of  the  last  few  days,  less  truly  important. 
Between  two  story  incidents  widely  separated 
in  time  there  is  a  hke  weakening  of  interest. 
And  if  considerable  intervals  occur  between  vari- 
ous incidents,  the  total  effect  will  be  hmp  indeed. 
Incidents,  to  have  the  true  relation  of  cause  and 
effect,  as  we  have  seen  they  must,  should  seem 
to  happen  in  short  space.  They  must  give  the 
illusion  of  experience  itself,  which  is  an  uninter- 
rupted flow.  The  writer  therefore  endeavors, 
first  of  all,  to  begin  his  story  as  near  as  possible 
to  its  point  of  highest  interest,  relating  antecedent 


46   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

events  necessary  to  our  understanding  of  the 
story  by  various  means  which  we  shall  discuss 
in  detail  in  a  subsequent  chapter.  But  what  of 
the  incidents  which  remain?  For  these  the 
writer  telescopes  his  action.  Let  us  see  what  is 
meant  by  the  figure. 

We  shall  assume  that  the  writer  has  in  mind 
a  story  based  upon  experience,  modified,  of  course, 
and  provided  with  a  suitable  and  logical  denoue- 
ment, but  in  essence  a  ''true  story."  He  first 
carefully  cuts  away  extraneous  incidents,  those 
not  logically  necessary  to  the  growth  of  the 
action.  In  so  doing  he  has  removed  the  story 
from  the  realm  of  hf e,  in  which  logical  sequence  of 
events  is  overlaid  and  obscured  by  irrelevancies 
and  he  has  made  it  to  some  degree  art,  selected 
and  related  incident  with  a  purpose.  As  he 
examines  the  skeleton  which  he  has  so  carefully 
laid  bare  by  his  process  of  omissions  he  is  con- 
scious of  rather  long  time-intervals  between  cer- 
tain of  the  steps  of  his  story.  The  incidents  are 
well  enough  related  logically,  but  they  occur  over 
a  considerable  period  of  time.  Could  this  be 
shortened  there  would  be  a  gain  in  intensity;  his 
story  would  be  without  the  enfeebhng  delays  of 
which  we  spoke.  Therefore  he  reduces  the  time- 
intervals  as  much  as  he  dares,  bringing  the  re- 
lated parts  of  his  story  into  more  immediate 
connection.     If  a  week  in  fact  intervened  be- 


THE  UNITIES  47 

tween  incidents  four  and  five,  and  if  this  inter- 
val may  be  safely  shortened  to  a  day,  or  better, 
an  hour,  he  makes  the  alteration,  for  he  gains 
thereby  in  effectiveness.  Or,  it  may  be,  he 
merely  avoids,  in  so  far  as  possible,  all  specific 
references  to  time-intervals,  and  emphasizes  ac- 
tion, seeking  to  intimate  the  flow  of  time  only 
indirectly.  The  reader  is  then  unconscious  of 
definite  time-intervals,  though  aware  in  general 
that  time  has  passed. 

There  is,  however,  a  check  upon  this  foreshort- 
ening process.  It  may  be  that  between  the  in- 
cidents selected  some  considerable  interval  is 
necessary  if  the  second  is  to  be  accepted  as 
springing  from  the  first,  as,  for  instance,  one 
indicating  a  radical  development  of  character. 
People  are  usually  slow  to  alter;  time  must  be 
given  them  that  influences  may  have  effect.  If 
the  story  relates  the  hero's  meeting  with  the 
heroine,  his  conversation  with  her,  some  service 
he  may  do,  a  second  meeting,  his  growing  love, 
and  his  proposal  of  marriage,  we  need  some  little 
time  to  elapse  if  we  are  to  accept  the  character 
change  as  convincing.  The  incidents  might  be 
arranged  so  as  to  occur  within  a  single  day  or 
evening,  but  did  they  do  so  we  should  not  be- 
lieve the  hero  truly  in  love.  Such  sudden  infat- 
uations take  place  in  real  fife,  but  they  are 
exceptional,  and  a  story  must  be  true  not  of 


l^J 


48   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

exceptional  experience  but  of  typical  experience. 
If  between  the  same  series  of  incidents  there 
be  permitted  to  elapse  a  slightly  longer  time,  if 
w.  they  be  spread  over  a  week  or  two,  we  shall  be 
far  more  likely  to  accept  them  as  plausible. 

The  writer,  then,  telescopes  his  incidents  as 
much  as  he  dares,  his  knowledge  of  life  serv- 
ing as  a  check  upon  the  extreme  exercise  of  his 
artistic  method.  He  may,  indeed,  overstep  the 
bounds  of  naturalness  somewhat.  The  reader 
will  excuse  a  considerable  degree  of  foreshorten- 
ing as  a  convention  of  the  art  if  thereby  the 
story's  action  is  made  more  rapid.  But  there 
exists  always  the  danger  of  going  too  far.  Good 
sense,  experience,  and  the  study  of  good  fiction 
must  all  aid  the  writer  in  his  determination  of 
the  golden  mean.    . 

An  extreme  example  of  foreshortening  artistic- 
ally managed,  is  Stevenson's  The  Sire  de  Male- 
Jllf^  tr oil's  Door.  In  this  the  hero  meets  the  heroine 
\  one  evening  and  marries  her  the  next  morning. 
But  to  render  his  solution  plausible  the  writer 
has  carefully  devised  various  compelling  and 
extenuating  circumstances.  These  cause  us  to 
accept  his  assurances  without  great  effort. 
Swiftness  of  action  and  a  reasonable  degree  of 
credibiHty  are  both  achieved. 

It  is  desirable,  then,  that  a  story  cover  as 
short  a  time  as  is  compatible  with  the  reader's 


THE  UNITIES  49 

acceptance  of  it  as  typical  of  human  experience. 
There  are  many  stories,  however,  which  by  their 
very  nature  cannot  be  so  hurried.  Intervals  of 
time  must  elapse  if  the  story  is  to  include  certain 
of  its  essentials.  Let  us  take  an  extreme  case,  . 
Maupassant's  The  Necklace.  In  this  the  major  (T 
part  of  the  action  occupies  but  a  day  or  two. 
Then  occurs  an  interval  of  ten  years,  which  is 
summarized  in  a  paragraph.  After  this  the 
action  is  concluded  within  a  few  minutes.  The 
actual  story  incidents  cover,  it  is  true,  but  two 
or  three  days.  What  of  the  ten  years'  interval, 
however,  which  the  author  not  only  does  not 
ignore,  but  actually  emphasizes?  It  is  upon  our 
imaginative  acceptance  of  this  long  period  of 
time  that  the  whole  power  of  the  story  depends. 
Our  minds  must  be  staggered  by  it.  We  must 
not,  however,  dwell  so  long  upon  it  and  its  hap- 
penings that  the  early  incidents  of  the  story  lose 
any  of  their  vividness,  for  it  is  in  contrast  with 
them  that  the  last  incidents  exercise  their  power 
of  pathos.  The  author  very  nicely  bridges  the 
difhculty.  He  gives  our  imaginations  a  moment 
to  grasp  the  significance  of  so  long  a  period  of  the 
life  which  in  a  few  sentences  he  summarizes. 
But  he  permits  no  specific  incidents  of  the  period; 
for  to  do  so  would  be  to  divert  us  from  the  in- 
cidents previously  narrated.  He  takes  advan- 
tage  of  the  seeming  difficulty,  and  yet  maintains 


so   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  unity  of  his  story.  But  it  is  rather  an  ex- 
ceptional instance,  and  the  generalization  we 
have  laid  down  is  none  the  less  binding. 

A  less  unusual  instance  of  a  story  which,  of 
necessity,  covers  a  considerable  period  of  time, 
is  Kipling's  Baa^  Baa,  Black  Sheep.  Here  the 
action  requires  several  years,  for  the  story  is 
concerned  with  the  modification  of  a  child's 
character  amid  unwholesome  surroundings.  A 
shorter  period  would  not  produce  the  indelible 
effect  desired.  Let  us  note  several  specific  in- 
stances of  the  author's  skill  in  bridging  the 
necessary  intervals.  I  quote  the  transitional 
passages: 

Punch  said  it  accordingly  and  for  a  month, 
hugely  against  his  will,  stumbled  through  the 
brown  book.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  shiny  brass  counters  in  the  Office 
where  Uncle  Harry  went  once  every  three  months 
with  a  slip  of  blue  paper  and  received  sovereigns 
in  exchange.  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  Punch  could  string  a  few  pot-hooks 
together  he  wrote  to  Bombay  demanding  by  re- 
turn of  post  ''all  the  books  in  the  world." 

"I  shall  be  there  soon,"  said  he  to  Black 
Sheep,  one  winter  evenings  when  his  face  showed 
white  as  a  worn  silver  coin  under  the  lights  of 
the  chapel-lodge.  .  .  ,  A  month  later,  he  turned 


THE  UNITIES  51 

sharp  round,   ere  half  a  morning's  walk  was 
completed.  .  .  . 

They  put  him  to  bed,  and  for  a  fortnight  the 
shadow  of  his  sickness  lay  upon  the  house.  .  .  . 

Of  Judy  he  saw  very  little.  She  was  deeply 
religious — at  six  years  of  age.  [At  the  beginning 
of  the  story  we  learned  she  was  but  three.] 

As  time  went  on  and  the  memory  of  Papa  and 
Mama  became  wholly  overlaid.  .  .  . 

The  weeks  lengthened  into  months,  dinA  the  holi- 
days came.  .  .  . 

The  books  lasted  for  ten  days.  .  .  .  Then 
came  days  of  doing  absolutely  nothing.  .  .  . 

Holidays  came  and  holidays  went. 

The  weeks  were  interminable. 

For  the  next  three  weeks  Black  Sheep  was 
strictly  allowed  to  do  nothing. 

Aunty  Rosa  withdrew  and  left  Mama  kneel- 
ing between  her  children,  half  laughing,  half 
crying,  in  the  very  hall  where  Punch  and  Judy 
had  wept  five  years  before. 

The  instances  cited  are  only  the  more  obvious. 
Numerous  little  touches  less  easily  detached  from 
their  context  serve  to  keep  the  flow  of  time  un- 
checked. The  open  references  are  the  mile-posts 
upon  the  way.     And  all  are  possessed  of  one 


52   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

obvious  characteristic:  they  do  not  disguise  the 
passage  of  time;  indeed  they  mark  it  openly,  as 
is  essential  to  the  story.  But  never  do  they  in- 
dicate a  break  in  the  narrative.  Always,  in  the 
transitional  sentence,  some  phrase  links  the 
thought  with  that  which  has  preceded.  The 
reader,  keenly  interested  in  the  action,  follows 
first  the  thread  of  narrative.  Only  incidentally 
does  he  make  a  mental  note  of  the  time  covered 
since  the  last  specific  reference.  A  series  of  these 
marginal  comments,  and  the  reader  accepts 
within  a  few  pages  the  passage  of  months.  The 
logic  of  the  narrative  is  never  broken  to  indicate 
the  flight  of  time.  That  is  incidental  in  so  far  as 
it  attracts  attention,  though  vital  to  the  story's 
progress. 

The  artistic  handling  of  time  discovers,  per- 
haps, its  most  striking  illustration  in  Othello, 
The  play  demands  the  utmost  closeness  of  narra- 
tive logic.  Incident  must  crowd  upon  incident. 
Yet  there  must  seem  to  be  a  lapse  of  sufficient 
time  to  permit  the  slow  growth  of  Othello's 
jealousy.  The  two,  rapid  action  and  slow  modi- 
fication of  character,  are  antagonistic.  Yet  both 
are  so  artistically  conceived  that  it  is  possible 
to  plan  two  time  schemes  for  the  play.  In  one 
the  play  covers  seemingly  a  period  of  but  a  few 
days.  In  the  other  the  action  requires  not  days 
but  months.    The  reader  accepts  both  unthink- 


THE  UNITIES  S3 

ingly,  and  both  exercise  their  due  effect  upon 
him.  It  is  paradoxical  that  this  should  be  so, 
but  there  it  is  for  any  writer  of  stories  to  emulate. 
A  study  of  other  of  Shakespeare's  plays  will  re- 
veal the  same  good  artistry,  though  in  few  cases 
to  so  striking  a  degree  as  in  Othello. 

We  may  summarize:  Make  the  time  covered 
by  the  action  as  short  as  is  compatible  with  con- 
vincingness. If  the  indication  of  the  passage 
of  time  is  essential — and  often  it  must  be  defi- 
nitely given — subordinate  it;  do  not  let  it  mar 
the  even  flow  of  the  narrative. 

Unity  of  Place 

As  in  action  and  time,  so  in  place,  the  writer 
seeks  to  dissipate  the  attention  of  the  reader  as 
little  as  possible.     In  a  short  story,  if  the  action  ; 
occurs  in  too  many  and  diverse  places,  the  imagi-  \ 
nation  will  be  fatigued,  if  not  bewildered,  by  / 
the  shifts  demanded.     If  the  scenes  in  every  in- 
stance must  be  definite,  and  if  these  are  many, 
there  will,  too,  be  little  room  for  adequate  de- 
scriptive  detail.     The  writer  must,    therefore, 
economize,  as  in  the  instance  of  time,  and  bring 
his  story  to  pass  in  but  few  places.     With  some 
contrivance  he  should,  in  most  instances,   be 
able  to  do  this.     It  should  be  his  practice  to 
make  but  one  change  of  scene  when  his  first  in- 
clination prompts  him  to  two.     Several  scenes. 


54   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

if  set  in  a  single  town  or  city,  are  usually  more 
effective,  because  easier  to  visualize,  than  are 
those  far  apart  and  dissimilar;  that  a  single 
house  or  room  be  the  scene  of  action  is  better 
still.  Do  not  misunderstand;  as  in  the  manipu- 
lation of  time,  there  is  here  no  inflexible  law. 
An  examination  of  good  stories  will  show  merely 
no  unnecessary  changes  of  scene;  usually  there 
are  even  fewer  shifts  than  the  average  reader 
could  follow  readily  without  confusion  or  loss  of 
interest.  Unity  of  place  is  seldom  absolute. 
With  rare  exceptions  some  sHght  change  of  scene 
is  inevitable  in  the  shortest  of  stories;  and  the 
longer  the  story  the  more  changes  there  will 
usually  be;  certainly  the  more  changes  there 
may  be  without  loss  of  effectiveness. 

Yet  to  enumerate  the  changes  of  scene  in  sev- 
eral famous  short  stories  will  be  to  illustrate  the 
general  truth  that  the  skilful  writer  makes  very 
few.  Thus  in  Poe's  Purloined  Letter  we  have 
but  a  single  change,  that  from  the  apartment  of 
the  narrator  to  the  hotel  of  the  minister  D.  The 
scene  in  the  latter  place  is  noteworthy  for  its 
simple  artistry  in  the  treatment  both  of  time 
and  place;  it  is  really  two  scenes  occurring  on 
two  successive  days.  Observe  the  transitional 
sentences: 

I  .  .  .  took  my  departure  at  once,  leaving  a 
gold  snuff  box  upon  the  table. 


THE  UNITIES  55 

The  next  morning  /  called  for  the  snuff  box, 
when  we  resumed,  quite  eagerly,  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  preceding  day. 

The  reader  who  has  visualized  the  scene  is  not 
called  upon  to  wipe  the  picture  from  his  imagina- 
tion and  shortly  to  recreate  it,  despite  the  fact 
that  in  the  interval  between  the  visits  have  oc- 
curred incidents  necessary  to  the  narrative. 
These  the  author  brings  in  later  in  the  following 
fashion : 

In  the  meantime,  I  stepped  to  the  cardrack, 
took  the  letter,  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  replaced 
it  by  a  facsimile  (so  far  as  regards  externals) 
which  I  had  carefully  prepared  at  my  lodgings  .  .  . 

In  the  same  passage  mention  is  made  of  the 
scene  in  the  street  without,  to  which  the  atten- 
tion of  one  of  the  characters,  not  the  centre  of 
interest,  is  attracted.  But  as  this,  too,  is  subor- 
dinate in  interest,  care  is  taken  to  minimize  it, 
and  the  reader's  visuaHzation  of  the  room  and 
the  action  therein  is  unmarred. 

In  other  of  Poe's  stories  the  observant  will 
note  the  same  care  to  avoid  unnecessary  change 
of  place.  In  some,  indeed,  as  in  The  Pit  and  the 
Pendulum,  the  place  is  absolutely  fixed;  the 
action  occurs  within  the  walls  of  a  single  room. 
Like  attention  to  this  obvious  principle  is  to  be 
noted  in  stories  by  other  famous  writers.     They 


56   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

do  not  always,  it  is  true,  confine  the  action  to  a 
single  place,  for  the  incidents  selected  will  not 
always  so  permit;  it  is  merely  a  principle  to 
which  they  conform  as  nearly  as  possible.  But 
before  we  consider  such  stories  and  the  means 
by  which  transitions  of  place,  when  necessary, 
can  be  made  most  effectively,  we  should  con- 
sider stories  in  which  the  place  of  action  is  not 
fixed  at  any  time  but  is  constantly  moving,  so 
that  we  can  scarcely  say  that  the  story  occurs 
even  in  a  number  of  places.  Our  illustration  is 
Poe's  Cask  of  Amontillado. 

In  this  the  story  progresses  from  the  street 
in  carnival  time  to  a  house,  from  the  house  to 
the  cellars,  and  from  the  cellars  to  the  cata- 
combs. The  place  is  never  fixed:  that  is,  the 
scene  ceases  to  change  only  when  we  reach  the 
very  end  of  the  story.  Immediately,  as  we  read, 
we  are  struck  with  the  likeness  of  the  flow  of 
scene  to  that  of  time,  which  we  saw  to  be  char- 
acteristic of  well-constructed  stories.  In  these 
there  were  no  appreciable  breaks  in  the  flow  of 
action,  no  unbridged  intervals  of  time — this  by 
reason  of  a  well-contrived  coherence  of  incident. 
What  is  the  position  of  the  reader,  the  imaginary 
onlooker,  as  he  follows  the  story's  characters  in 
the  present  instance? 

He,  of  course,  visualizes  them  in  their  progress 
from  the  street  to  the  catacombs.     It  is  true  he 


THE  UNITIES  57 

does  not  see  everything  which  they  actually 
observed;  he  sees  instead  a  series  of  selected  and 
blended  objects.  It  is  as  though  he  passed  by 
these  at  a  pace  faster  than  that  of  reahty,  a 
pace  too  rapid  to  permit  the  observation  of  all 
details,  but  not  so  fast  that  significant  details, 
those  by  which  the  progress  from  one  chamber 
to  another  is  made  quite  clear,  may  not  be  re- 
corded. The  reader  fancies  that  he  walks  with 
the  characters  at  a  normal  pace,  though  in  fact 
his  progress  is  greatly  accelerated.  It  is  this 
effect  of  reahty  at  which  the  writer  aims.  Omis- 
sions, inevitable  to  selection,  are  unnoted.  Be- 
cause of  the  suspense  which  the  story  creates, 
our  progress  seems  even  slow,  and  we  hurry  over 
the  Hues  impatient  of  the  end. 

Because  of  this  flow  of  scene  so  perfectly  and 
uninterruptedly  maintained,  it  is  legitimate  to 
declare  the  unity  of  place  constant  throughout. 
Certainly,  there  is  no  strain  upon  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  reader,  no  radical  change  which  a 
sudden  shift  of  setting  would  necessitate.  We 
may  regard  the  reader  as  one  witnessing  a  pro- 
cession. Or  again,  the  incidents  are  like  the 
changing  panorama  seen  from  a  smoothly  flying 
train:  the  countryside,  not  the  observer,  seems 
to  move.  The  writer  in  fixing  so  firmly  the 
view-point  of  his  reader  has  achieved  the  effect 
of  perfect  unity  of  place  in  the  story  itself. 


58   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  problem  in  Poe's  story  is,  we  say,  simple. 
The  time  is  short,  and  the  change  of  place,  cov- 
ered at  an  even  speed,  is,  in  the  aggregate,  slight. 
The  illustration  avoids  the  difficulties  which  are 
met  with  in  a  story  of  diverse  scenes,  those 
actually  far  apart  and  different  in  kind,  which 
must  be  fused  in  a  single  narrative.  But  before 
we  proceed  to  an  examination  of  a  story  typical 
of  this  problem,  let  us  pause  for  a  moment  to 
consider  the  psychology  underlying  the  whole 
question  of  change  of  scene. 

From  what  we  have  already  learned  in  our 
consideration  of  place,  and  from  analogies  which 
we  made  to  the  problem  of  time,  we  may  lay 
down  a  few  generalizations.  I  fancy  we  shall 
be  psychologically  sound  if  we  regard  change  in 
time  and  place  as  much  the  same  in  their  effect 
upon  the  reader.  If  a  narrative  is  broken,  either 
to  indicate  the  passage  of  time  or  a  change  of 
scene,  the  effect  upon  the  reader  is  identical  in 
kind,  however  different  in  degree:  he  is  momen- 
tarily awakened  from  the  story  illusion,  the  es- 
sence of  which  is  an  unbroken  flow  of  impression. 
In  other  words,  he  has  again  to  take  up  the 
^read  of  the  story.  The  time-interval  is,  how- 
ever, more  easily  bridged  than  a  change  in  place, 
for  the  nature  of  the  incidents  on  either  side  the 
time  gap  may  be  the  same;  whereas  to  change 
from  one  scene  to  another  requires  a  fresh  crea- 


THE  UNITIES  59 

tive  act  of  the  imagination  rather  than  the  re- 
sumption of  a  state  of  mind  already  created. 

We  may  then  suppose  that  change  in  place, 
requiring  more  imaginative  power  in  the  reader 
than  the  acceptance  of  a  time-interval,  would  be 
less  seldom  permitted  by  a  skilful  writer,  and, 
when  unavoidable,  either  would  not  so  often  be 
successful  or  the  artistic  devices  to  efface  the 
fracture  would  be  the  more  refined  and  subtle. 
That  the  unity  of  place  is  more  exacting  and 
less  often  achieved  than  the  unity  of  time  is,  I 
think,  true.  A  story  may  cover  a  considerable 
period  of  time  and  still  be  unified.  But  if  in 
Baa  Baa  Black  Sheep  there  were  as  many  specific 
indications  of  a  change  of  scene  as  there  are  of 
the  passage  of  weeks  or  months,  the  story  would 
be  far  from  creating  its  unified  impression. 
What  changes  of  place  must  be,  are  either 
bridged  by  the  device  of  emphasizing  the  co- 
herence of  the  action — which  we  saw  was  true 
also  in  the  case  of  time-intervals — or  resort  is 
had  to  the  flow  of  scene,  the  device  of  The  Cask 
of  Amontillado, 

There  is,  however,  another  method,  closely 
analogous  to  the  flow  of  scene,  which  will  often 
serve,  wholly  or  in  part,  to  obviate  difficulties. 
When  the  scene  is  not  vital  to  the  intelligibihty 
or  vividness  of  the  action,  the  writer  may  tell 
his  story  with  but  slight  suggestion  of  definite 


6o   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

background,  just  as,  in  time,  there  may  be  no 
definite  indication  of  time-intervals.  The  story 
enacts  itself  in  such  case  as  though  freed  from 
the  restraints  of  time  and  place;  the  flow  of  in- 
cident creates  the  illusion  of  reahty.  It  occurs 
nowhere  in  particular,  and  the  reader,  conscious 
of  no  sharply  defined  setting  for  any  specific 
episode,  is  called  upon  for  no  effort  to  change 
the  scene  in  imagination.  His  attention  here  is 
concentrated  upon  action  or  character;  place  is 
of  no  importance. 

Yet  another  practice  of  good  writers  is  to 
economize  in  scene  by  recurring,  when  change  is 
^^  inevitable,  to  a  scene  which  has  already  been 
employed  for  previous  incident.  The  reader  re- 
creates the  setting  with  facihty  for  the  reason 
that  he  is  aided  by  memory.  The  sense  of  famili- 
arity which  this  practice  evokes  is  also  highly 
valuable  in  impressing  the  reader  with  the  truth 
of  the  story;  it  is  as  though  he  returned  to  the 
scene  of  a  former  experience.  Maupassant's 
story,  The  Piece  of  String,  will  illustrate  not  only 
this  last  method  of  effecting  transitions,  but,  as 
well,  the  others  previously  mentioned. 

The  story  begins  with  a  description  of  Norman 
peasants  coming  to  town  on  market-day;  the 
scene  here  is  a  flowing  one.  A  definite  place  is 
first  indicated  in  the  description  of  the  square 
to  which  the  incoming  peasants  have  led  us. 


THE  UNITIES  6i 

From  one  of  the  doorways  opening  on  this  square 
Master  Malandain  observes  Master  Hauchecorne 
pick  something  from  the  mud.  The  scene  and 
setting  are  definite  and  static. 

The  story  then  turns  to  the  hfe  of  the  square, 
and  the  transition  to  the  next  scene  is  made  in 
the  following  fashion: 

Then,  Httle  by  little,  the  square  became  empty, 
and  when  the  Angelus  struck  midday  those  who 
lived  too  far  away  to  go  home  hetook  themselves 
to  the  various  inns. 

At  Jourdain's  the  common  room  was  full  of 
customers,  as  the  great  yard  was  full  of  vehicles 
of  every  sort.  .  .  . 

The  inn  is  then  described,  and  those  seated  at 
dinner.  They  are  aroused  by  the  drum  of  the 
town  crier  and  rush  to  the  door  to  hear  his  news 
(anticipatory  of  the  next  incident).  A  little 
later.  Master  Hauchecorne,  dining  with  the  rest, 
is  summoned  to  appear  before  the  mayor.  The 
transition  is  thus  made: 

He  started  off  repeating 
"Here  I  am  sir." 
And  he  followed  the  brigadier. 
The  mayor  was  waiting  for  him. 

After  this  scene  the  place  does  not  again  be- 
come  definite   for   a   considerable   space.     We 


62   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

follow  the  man  to  his  home,  but  this  is  not  de- 
scribed, for  it  is  of  no  importance  to  the  story. 

The  incidents  immediately  following,  though 
they  cover  a  week  and  occur  in  a  variety  of 
places,  are  thus  summarily  dismissed: 

All  day  long  he  talked  of  his  adventure;  he 
told  it  in  the  road  to  people  who  passed;  at  the 
wine-shop  to  people  who  were  drinking;  and 
after  church  on  the  following  Sunday. 

No  place  is  allowed  to  assume  more  than  a 
momentary  and  most  casual  definiteness. 
The  next  transition  is: 

On  Tuesday  of  the  next  week  he  went  to 
market  at  Goderville.  .  .  .  Malandain  standin^j 
in  his  doorway  began  to  laugh.  .  .  . 

Here  the  scene,  though  short,  is  definite;  but 
it  is  identical  with  the  first  fixed  scene  of  the: 
story.    The  next  is  of  like  sort: 

When  he  was  seated  at  the  table  of  Jourdain^s 
inn.  .  .  . 

The  last  transition  is: 

He  returned  home. 

Again  there  is  no  definiteness  of  scene,  either 
here  or  in  subsequent  incidents. 

Throughout  the  story  there  are  but  three  defi- 
nite scenes — those  in  the  square*  in  the  inn,  and 


THE  UNITIES  63 

the  mayor's  office.  The  first  two  are  again 
briefly  echoed,  the  writer  reveahng  in  these  his 
economy  of  materials  by  refusing  to  devise  new 
settings.  Our  imaginative  pictures  are  confined 
therefore  to  these  parts  of  a  single  village.  The 
incidents  which  do  not  occur  here  might  happen 
anywhere,  do  happen  anywhere,  for  they  are 
attached  to  no  specific  place.  The  fleeting  refer- 
ences to  wine-shop  and  church  produce  but  a 
momentary  picture;  these  in  no  sense  can  be 
said  to  constitute  scenes.  We  should  note, 
also,  the  simple  transitions  from  place  to  place. 
From  the  reference  to  dinner  we  are  whisked  to 
the  dining-room  at  Jourdain's.  When  the  hero 
is  summoned  to  the  mayor's,  it  is  said:  *'He  fol  • 
lowed  the  brigadier."  He  is  then  there,  and 
our  imaginations  make  no  difficulty  of  the  transi- 
tion. But  though  content  for  the  most  part  tci 
picture  the  flow  of  events  as  unattached  to  a 
specific  background,  the  writer  is  careful  to  at- 
tach the  most  vital  incidents  to  a  definite  setting. 
It  is  as  though  the  stream  of  incident  crystallized 
at  crucial  moments,  and  in  so  doing  made  clear 
the  place  of  action.  Then  the  action  dissolves, 
later  to  crystallize  again.  The  writer  is  careful 
not  to  make  these  pauses  too  frequent,  and  as 
we  recall  the  story  we  see  only  the  square  with 
the  tragic  picture  of  the  old  peasant  as  he  picks 
up  his  piece  of  string,  or  as  he  is  taunted  by  his 


64   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

enemy;  or  the  inn,  whence,  bewildered,  he  is 
summoned  to  the  mayor  and  where,  later,  he  is 
angered  and  hurt  as  his  fellows  twit  him  with 
his  supposed  theft. 

A  few  general  principles  emerge  from  our 
rather  long  discussion  of  the  unity  of  place:  it 
is  well  to  present  but  few  definite  scenes,  and 
these  coincident  with  the  most  vital  episodes  of 
the  story,  serving  thus  to  emphasize  and  make 
memorable  such  incidents.  For  the  rest  there 
need  be  no  definite  place;  the  incidents  need  be 
attached  to  no  specific  setting.  Or  the  scene 
may  be  a  flowing  one  and  not  static  at  all.  Last 
and  most  important,  transitions  in  scene  must 
be  so  deftly  made  that  the  reader's  thought  and 
imagination  easily  bridge  the  gap — this  by  reason 
of  the  coherence  of  the  narrative. 


CHAPTER  V 
EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION 

A  STORY  must  do  more  than  relate  the  vital 
incidents  of  the  plot;  there  is  another  element, 
purely  expository,  the  object  of  which  is  to  make 
the  circumstances  of  the  story  intelligible  to  the 
reader.  He  must  know  who  are  the  characters, 
something  of  their  history,  and  their  relations 
past  and  present  to  one  another,  as  well  as  other 
antecedent  and  coincident  matters.  This  in- 
formation may  be  much  or  little  as  occasion 
may  demand.  The  means  whereby  it  is  intro- 
duced into  the  story  constitutes  a  problem  in 
technic,  a  problem  dependent  in  large  part 
upon  the  choice  of  the  point  of  view. 

As  our  introduction  to  the  subject  let  us,  then, 
select  a  story  written  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  actor-narrator  and  examine  the  initial  exposi- 
tion. The  story  is  Stevenson's,  The  Merry  Men, 
of  which  I  quote  the  second  paragraph: 

I  was  far  from  being  a  native  of  these  parts, 
springing,  as  I  did,  from  an  unmixed  lowland 
stock.    But  an  uncle  of  mine,  George  Darnaway, 
6s 


66       ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

after  a  poor,  rough  youth,  and  some  years  at  sea, 
had  married  a  young  wife  in  the  islands;  Mary 
Maclean  she  was  called,  the  last  of  her  family; 
and  when  she  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  daughter, 
Aros,  the  sea-girt  farm,  had  remained  in  his  pos- 
session. It  brought  him  in  nothing  but  the 
means  of  Hfe,  as  I  was  well  aware;  but  he  was  a 
man  whom  ill-fortune  had  pursued;  he  feared, 
cumbered  as  he  was  with  the  young  child,  to 
make  a  fresh  adventure  upon  Kfe;  and  remained 
at  Aros,  biting  his  nails  at  destiny.  Years  passed 
over  his  head  in  that  isolation,  and  brought 
neither  help  nor  contentment.  Meantime  our 
family  was  dying  out  in  the  lowlands;  there  is 
little  luck  for  any  of  that  race;  and  perhaps  my 
father  was  the  luckiest  of  all,  for  not  only  was  he 
one  of  the  last  to  die,  but  he  left  a  son  to  his 
name  and  a  Httle  money  to  support  it.  I  was 
a  student  at  Edinburgh  University,  living  well 
enough  at  my  own  charges,  but  without  kith 
or  kin;  when  some  news  of  me  found  its  way 
to  Uncle  Gordon  on  the  Ross  of  Grisapol;  and 
he,  as  he  was  a  man  who  held  blood  thicker  than 
water,  wrote  to  me  the  day  he  heard  of  my  exist- 
ence, and  taught  me  to  coimt  Aros  as  my  home. 
Thus  it  was  that  I  came  to  spend  my  vacations 
in  that  part  of  the  country,  so  far  from  all 
society  and  comfort,  between  the  cod-fish  and  the 
moor-cocks;  and  thus  it  was  that  now,  when  I  had 
done  with  my  classes,  was  returning  thither  with 
so  light  a  heart  that  July  day. — (The  Merry  Men.) 

There  is  no  attempt  here  to  disguise  the  pur- 
pose of  the  paragraph,  which  is  frankly  inform- 


EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION    67 

ing,  and  though  somewhat  more  interesting  than 
the  cast  of  characters  on  a  playbill,  or  a  descrip- 
tion of  stage  setting,  serves  much  the  same  pur- 
pose. We  learn  who  the  hero  is,  somewhat  of 
his  history,  and  his  reason  for  being  at  Aros; 
we  learn,  too,  of  his  relatives  and  their  history; 
the  character  of  the  place,  and  the  time  of  year. 
All  this  the  author  considers  necessary  to  our 
proper  appreciation  of  what  he  has  later  to  tell. 
What  of  the  fitness  of  the  narrator  to  be  our  in- 
formant? With  his  own  history  he  is,  naturally, 
sufficiently  familiar.  But  can  we  suppose  him 
to  know  so  much  of  his  uncle  and  cousin?  What 
means  had  he  of  learning  the  facts  he  gives? 
We  read  that  he  had  spent  several  vacations  on 
the  island,  and  by  reason  of  his  kinship  we  may 
suppose  him  familiar  with  the  superficial  facts 
of  his  uncle's  history.  But  he  states,  also,  that 
his  uncle  feared  to  adventure  and  so  remained 
''biting  his  nails  at  destiny."  This,  if  we  accept 
it  without  criticism,  we  must  attribute  to  the 
hero's  powers  of  observation,  or  to  confidences 
his  uncle  may  have  made.  There  is,  indeed, 
nothing  in  the  statement  difficult  of  acceptance, 
and  the  reader  passes  over  it  without  question. 
Yet  it  serves  to  define  a  difficulty  of  exposition 
in  a  story  told  by  one  of  the  participants.  The 
information  must  be  such  as  lies  reasonably 
within  the  knowledge  of  the  narrator.    He  must 


68   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

not  know  too  much,  or  the  story  illusion,  which 
we  gladly  accept  if  we  may,  will  be  incomplete. 
At  no  point  may  the  actor-narrator  introduce 
exposition  other  than  that  which  comes  naturally 
within  the  circle  of  his  observation. 

For  our  second  instance  let  us  select  a  story 
told  by  the  author-omniscient.  These  three  ex- 
pository paragraphs  follow  immediately  upon  the 
opening  dialogue  of  Kipling's  Without  Benefit  oj 
Clergy: 

The  man  did  not  move.  He  was  sitting  on 
a  low  red-lacquered  couch  in  a  room  furnished 
only  with  a  blue  and  white  floor-cloth,  some 
rugs,  and  a  very  complete  collection  of  native 
cushions.  At  his  feet  sat  a  woman  of  sixteen, 
and  she  was  all  but  all  the  world  in  his  eyes. 
By  every  rule  and  law  she  should  have  been 
otherwdse,  for  he  was  an  Englishman,  and  she 
a  Mussulman's  daughter  bought  two  years  be- 
fore from  her  mother,  who,  being  left  without 
money,  would  have  sold  Ameera  shrieking  to 
the  Prince  of  Darkness  if  the  price  had  been 
sufficient. 

It  was  a  contract  entered  into  with  a  Hght 
heart;  but  even  before  the  girl  had  reached  her 
bloom  she  came  to  fill  the  greater  portion  of  John 
Holden's  hfe.  For  her,  and  the  withered  hag 
her  mother,  he  had  taken  a  little  house  over- 
looking the  great  red-walled  city,  and  foimd — 
when  the  marigolds  had  sprung  up  by  the  well 
in  the  courtyard* and  Ameera  had  established 


EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION    69 

herself  according  to  her  own  ideas  of  comfort, 
and  her  mother  had  ceased  grumbling  at  the  in- 
adequacy of  the  cooking-places,  the  distance 
from  the  daily  market,  and  at  matters  of  house- 
keeping in  general — that  the  house  was  to  him 
his  home.  Any  one  could  enter  his  bachelor*s 
bungalow  by  day  or  night,  and  the  life  that  he 
led  there  was  an  unlovely  one.  In  the  house 
in  the  city  his  feet  only  could  pass  beyond  the 
outer  courtyard  to  the  women's  rooms;  'and 
when  the  big  wooden  gate  was  bolted  behind  him 
he  was  king  in  his  own  territory  with  Ameera 
for  queen.  And  there  was  going  to  be  added  to 
this  kingdom  a  third  person  whose  arrival 
Holden  felt  inclined  to  resent.  It  interfered 
with  his  perfect  happiness.  It  disarranged  the 
orderly  peace  of  the  house  that  was  his  own. 
But  Ameera  was  wild  with  deUght  at  the  thought 
of  it  and  her  mother  not  less  so.  The  love  of  a 
man,  and  particularly  a  white  man,  was  at  best 
an  inconstant  affair,  but  it  might,  both  women 
argued,  be  held  fast  by  a  baby's  hands.  "And 
then,"  Ameera  would  always  say,  "then  he  will 
never  care  for  the  white  mem-log.  I  hate  them 
all— I  hate  them  all." 

"He  will  go  back  to  his  own  people  in  time," 
said  the  mother;  "but  by  the  blessing  of  God 
that  time  is  yet  afar  off." 

We  learn  from  this  several  things :  the  present 
relations  of  the  characters,  the  incidents  leading 
to  this  relationship,  the  place,  and  something  of 
the  man's  nature.  As  the  point  of  view  is  that 
of  the  omniscient  author,  we  accept  without 


70   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

demur  all  that  he  tells  us.  He  is  supposed  to 
know  these  things.  Our  later  criticism  must  be 
directed  to  the  manner  of  the  exposition,  and  its 
effect  upon  the  action  into  which  it  has  been  in- 
corporated. For  the  moment  we  shall  ignore 
these  points  and  consider  as  a  third  instance  the 
point  of  view  of  the  author-observant,  who  pro- 
^f esses  ignorance  of  circumstances  antecedent  to 
/  the  story.  What  he  tells  us  must  be  in  dialogue 
^and  description,  elements  of  the  action  itself. 
How  may  we  separate  from  these  the  purely 
expository  element?  But  our  illustration  must 
precede  the  discussion.  The  passage  is  from 
The  Love  of  Romance,  of  E.  Nesbit's  clever  vol- 
ume, The  Literary  Sense: 

She  opened  the  window,  at  which  no  light 
shone.  All  the  other  windows  were  darkly  shut- 
tered. The  night  was  still :  only  a  faint  breath 
moved  among  the  restless  aspen  leaves.  The 
ivy  round  the  window  whispered  hoarsely  as  the 
casement,  swung  back  too  swiftly,  rested  against 
it.  She  had  a  large  linen  sheet  in  her  hands. 
Without  hurry  and  without  delayings  she  knotted 
one  corner  of  it  to  the  iron  staple  of  the  window. 
She  tied  the  knot  firmly,  and  further  secured  it 
with  string.  She  let  the  white  bulk  of  the  sheet 
fall  between  the  ivy  and  the  night,  then  she 
climbed  on  to  the  window-ledge,  and  crouched 
there  on  her  knees.  There  was  a  heart-sick 
pause  before  she  grasped  the  long  twist  of  the 
sheet  as  it  hung — let  her  knees  slip  from  the 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION     71 

supporting  stone  and  swung  suddenly  by  her 
hands.  Her  elbows  and  wrists  were  grazed 
against  the  rough  edge  of  the  window-ledge — 
the  sheet  twisted  at  her  weight,  and  jarred  her 
shoulder  heavily  against  the  house  wall.  Her 
arms  seemed  to  be  tearing  themselves  from  their 
sockets.  But  she  clenched  her  teeth,  felt  with 
her  feet  for  the  twdsted  ivy  stems  on  the  side  of 
the  house,  found  foothold,  and  the  moment  of 
almost  unbearable  agony  was  over.  She  went 
down  helped  by  feet  and  hands,  and  by  ivy  and 
sheet,  almost  exactly  as  she  had  planned  to  do. 
She  had  not  known  it  would  hurt  so  much — that 
was  all.  Her  feet  felt  the  soft  mould  of  the 
border:  a  stout  geranium  snapped  under  her 
tread.  She  crept  around  the  house,  in  the 
house's  shadow — found  the  gardener's  ladder — 
and  so  on  to  the  high  brick  wall.  From  this  she 
dropped,  deftly  enough,  into  the  suburban  lane: 
dropped,  too,  into  the  arms  of  a  man  who  was 
waiting  there.  She  hid  her  face  in  his  neck, 
trembhng,  and  said,  ''Oh,  Harry — I  wish  I 
hadn't!"  Then  she  began  to  cry  helplessly. 
The  man,  receiving  her  embrace  with  what 
seemed  in  the  circumstances  a  singularly  moder- 
ated enthusiasm,  led  her  with  one  arm  still 
lightly  about  her  shoulders  down  the  lane:  at 
the  corner  he  stood  still,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice — 

"Hush — stop  crying  at  once  I  I've  something 
to  say  to  you." 

She  tore  herself  from  his  arm  and  gasped. 

"It's  not  Harry,"  she  said.  "Oh,  how  dare 
you!"     She  had  been  brave  till  she  had  dropped 


72   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

into  his  arms.  Then  the  need  for  bravery  had 
seemed  over.  Now  her  tears  were  dried  swiftly 
and  suddenly  by  the  blaze  of  anger  and  courage 
in  her  eyes. 

''Don't  be  unreasonable,"  he  said,  and  even 
at  that  moment  of  disappointment  and  rage  his 
voice  pleased  her.  "I  had  to  get  you  away 
somehow.  I  couldn't  risk  an  explanation  right 
under  your  aunt's  windows.  Harry's  sprained 
his  knee — cricket.     He  couldn't  come." 

A  sharp  resentment  stirred  in  her  against  the 
lover  who  could  play  cricket  on  the  very  day  of 
an  elopement. 

"He  told  you  to  come?  Oh,  how  could  he  be- 
tray me!" 

"My  dear  girl,  what  was  he  to  do?  He  couldn't 
leave  you  to  wait  out  here  alone — perhaps  for 
hours." 

"I  shouldn't  have  waited  long,"  she  said 
sharply;  "you  came  to  tell  me:  now  you've 
told  me — you'd  better  go." 

"Look  here,"  he  said  with  gentle  calm,  "I 
do  wish  you'd  try  not  to  be  quite  so  silly.  I'm 
Harry's  doctor — and  a  middle-aged  man.  Let 
me  help  you.  There  must  be  some  better  way 
out  of  your  troubles  than  a  midnight  flight  and  a 
despairingly  defiant  note  on  the  pin-cushion." 

" I  didn't,"  she  said.  "I  put  it  on  the  mantel- 
piece. Please  go.  I  decline  to  discuss  anything 
with  you." 

"Ah,  don't!"  he  said;  "I  knew  you  must  be 
a  very  romantic  person,  or  you  wouldn't  be  here; 
and  I  knew  you  must  be  rather  sill — well,  rather 
young,  or  you  wouldn't  have  fallen  in  love  with 


EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION    73 

Harry.  But  I  did  not  think,  after  the  brave 
and  practical  manner  in  which  you  kept  your 
appointment,  I  did  not  think  that  you'd  try  to 
behave  Hke  the  heroine  of  a  family  novelette. 
Come,  sit  down  on  this  heap  of  stones — there's 
nobody  about.  There's  a  light  in  your  house 
now.  You  can't  go  back  yet.  Here,  let  me  put 
my  Inverness  about  you.  Keep  it  up  around 
your  chin,  and  then  if  anybody  sees  you  they 
won't  know  who  you  are.  I  can't  leave  you 
alone  here.  You  know  what  a  lot  of  robberies 
there  have  been  in  the  neighborhood  lately; 
there  may  be  rough  characters  about.  Come 
now,  let's  see  what's  to  be  done.  You  know  you 
can't  get  back  unless  I  help  you." 

''I  don't  want  you  to  help  me;  and  I  won't  go 
back,"  she  said. 

But  she  sat  down  and  pulled  the  cloak  up 
round  her  face. 

"Now,"  he  said,  *'as  I  understand  the  case 
— it's  this.  You  live  rather  a  dull  life  with 
two  tyrannical  aunts — and  the  passion  for  ro- 
mance. ..." 

"They're  not  tyrannical — only  one's  always 
ill  and  the  other's  always  nursing  her.  She 
makes  her  get  up  and  read  to  her  in  the  night. 
That's  her  Hght  you  saw -" 

"Well,  I  pass  the  aunts.  Anyhow,  you  met 
Harry — somehow " 

"  It  was  at  the  Choral  Society.  And  then  they 
stopped  my  going — because  he  walked  homa 
with  me  one  wet  night." 

"And  you  have  never  seen  each  other  since?" 

"Of  course  we  have." 


74   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"And  communicated  by  some  means  more 
romantic  than  the  post?" 

"It  wasn't  romantic.     It  was  tennis-balls." 

"Tennis-baUs?" 

"You  cut  a  slit  and  squeeze  it  and  put  a  note 
in,  and  it  shuts  up  and  no  one  notices  it.  It 
wasn't  romantic  at  all.  And  I  don't  know  why 
I  should  tell  you  anything  about  it." 

"And  then  I  suppose  there  were  glances  in 
church,  and  stolen  meetings  in  the  passionate 
hush  of  the  rose-scented  garden." 

"  There's  nothing  in  the  garden  but  geraniums," 
she  said,  "and  we  always  talked  over  the  wall — 
he  used  to  stand  on  their  chicken  house,  and  I 
used  to  turn  our  dog  kennel  up  on  end  and  stand 
on  that.  You  have  no  right  to  know  anything 
about  It,  but  it  was  not  in  the  least  romantic." 

"No — that  sees  itself!  May  I  ask  whether  it 
was  you  or  he  who  proposed  this  elopement?" 

But  for  one  or  two  touches  which  intimate  the 
girl's  secret  thoughts,  the  point  of  view  here  is 
strictly  observant  and  unobtrusive.  Virtually 
we  have  the  lines  of  a  play,  the  description  serv- 
ing as  the  stage  business.  From  the  dialogue  and 
descriptive  touches  we  <nust  not  only  follow  the 
story  action,  but  also  grasp  the  present  situation, 
and  learn  from  what  it  has  developed.  This  we 
have  no  difficulty  in  doing.  We  learn  of  the 
elopement  and  the  manner  of  courtship  which 
preceded.  We  gather  something  of  the  char- 
acters of  those  concerned,  and  our  interest  is 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION    75 

aroused  in  the  man  who  extorts  all  this  infor- 
mation from  the  girl.  The  dialogue  serves  the 
double  purpose  of  exposition  and  narration.  If 
it  does  all  this  without  seeming  at  any  moment 
forced  or  unnatural,  it  is  good  dialogue,  and  we 
take  an  intellectual  pleasure  in  observing  the 
author's  dexterity. 

Dialogue,  to  serve  this  dual  purpose,  must  have 
recourse  to  various  expedients  so  that  talk  re- 
lating antecedent  events  may  be  elicited  in  a 
natural  manner.  Not  every  young  lady  can  be 
prevailed  upon  to  tell  the  details  of  her  court- 
ship. Anger  is  the  device  employed,  a  device 
hoary  in  stage-craft,  which,  dependent  upon 
tricks  of  this  kind,  has  developed  many.  Other 
expedients  by  which  dialogue  may  be  turned  to 
the  exposition  of  antecedent  events  will  readily 
occur  to  every  one.  A  lawyer  may  rehearse  his 
client's  position  and  thus  acquaint  us  with  im- 
portant facts;  a  letter  may  be  introduced  into 
the  story,  or  a  newspaper  clipping,  or  a  passage 
from  Who^s  Who  ;  a  palmist  may  tell  the  life  of 
his  visitor,  and  from  the  visitor's  conduct  we 
may  judge  the  information  to  be  exact.  In 
The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,  Mr.  Howells  intro- 
duces a  reporter  who  asks  the  hero  the  important 
facts  of  his  career  for  newspaper  publication. 
In  The  Scarlet  Letter,  from  the  talk  of  the  Puri- 
tans gathered  about  Hester  Prynne  in  the  pillory 


76   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

we  learn  of  her  offence  and  other  relevant  cir- 
cumstances. The  merit  of  these  devices  is  that, 
while  they  serve  to  inform  us,  we  yet  feel  the 
story  to  be  progressing.  This  we  do  not  feel 
when  the  author  steps  aside  from  his  story  to 
tell  us  what  we  need  to  know. 

Nevertheless  the  greater  number  of  good  stories 
do  not  rely  solely  upon  dialogue  and  description 
for  exposition.  Though  they  employ  it  to  a 
considerable  degree,  they  depend  chiefly  upon 
direct  exposition.  The  feeling  which  prompts 
this  choice  is,  doubtless,  that  the  obviousness 
and  conciseness  of  direct  exposition  is  less  haz- 
ardous than  the  indirect  or  dramatic  style. 
Nothing  is  so  bad  as  dialogue  forced  into  an  im- 
natural  channel  for  the  story's  purposes.  The 
illusion  to  be  satisfactory  must  be  complete. 
Authors  employ,  therefore,  a  variety  of  means  to 
make  the  story  clear:  they  may  sketch  briefly 
antecedent  events;  they  may  read  the  thoughts 
of  the  characters,  which,  if  turned  to  the  past, 
serve  as  exposition;  for  the  setting  forth  of 
present  relations,  they  employ  dialogue.  If  all 
these  means  are  utilized,  the  point  of  view  of  the 
author-omniscient  (or  that  of  the  actor-narrator) 
is  inevitable. 

Before  we  take  up  further  aspects  of  this  topic 
let  us  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  passages  quoted 
from  Stevenson  and  Kipling  and  note  their  place 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION    77 

in  the  story.  Neither  comes  at  the  very  begin- 
ning. Stevenson  introduces  The  Merry  Men 
with  a  brief  narrative  paragraph  which  serves  to 
get  the  story  under  way.  Kipling  begins  with 
a  fairly  long  scene  in  dialogue,  which  serves  in 
part  an  expository  purpose.  Then  he  pauses  to 
explain  the  situation.  My  own  feeling  is  that 
Kipling's  explanation  is  unduly  long,  coming  as 
it  does  sharp  upon  an  interesting  passage  in 
dialogue.  In  The  Merry  Men  the  difficulty  is 
not  so  great,  for  our  interest  in  the  story  as 
aroused  by  the  first  paragraph,  is  tepid,  so  that 
the  author's  digression — this,  too,  in  the  hero's 
own  words — seems  not  much  to  matter.  The 
keener  the  interest  aroused  at  the  outset,  the 
greater  the  contrast  with  the  expository  matter 
following. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  many  authors  preface 
the  story  with  the  exposition.  Thus  Maupas- 
sant's The  Coward: 

He  was  known  in  society  as  "the  handsome 
SignoUes."  His  name  was  Viscount  Gontran 
Joseph  de  Signolles. 

An  orphan  and  the  possessor  of  a  sufficient 
fortune,  he  cut  a  dash,  as  they  say.  He  had 
style  and  presence,  sufficient  fluency  of  speech  to 
make  people  think  him  clever,  a  certain  natural 
grace,  an  air  of  nobility  and  pride,  a  gallant 
mustache  and  a  gentle  eye,  which  the  women  Hke. 

He  was  in  great  demand  in  the  salons,  much 


78   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

sought  after  by  fair  dancers;  and  he  aroused  in 
his  own  sex  that  smiling  animosity  which  they 
always  feel  for  men  of  an  energetic  figure.  He 
had  been  suspected  of  several  love  affairs  well 
adapted  to  cause  a  young  bachelor  to  be  much 
esteemed.  He  passed  a  happy,  unconcerned 
life,  in  a  comfort  of  mind  which  was  almost 
complete.  He  was  known  to  be  a  skilful  fencer, 
and  with  the  pistol  even  more  adept. 

"If  I  ever  fight  a  duel,"  he  would  say,  "I 
shall  choose  the  pistol.  With  that  weapon  I 
am  sure  of  killing  my  man." 

The  exposition  here  is  brief  but  adequate  to 
its  purpose,  and  every  detail  is  vital  to  the  story. 

Our  discussion  has  so  far  had  to  do  with  ex- 
position only  of  present  and  retrospective  sig- 
nificance. Still  more  important  is  that  exposi- 
tion which  anticipates  the  action  to  come,  so 
that  in  the  heat  of  the  story  the  action  need  not 
pause  for  explanations  essential  to  clearness. 
The  passage  from  The  Coward  illustrates  this 
function  of  exposition  admirably.  We  learn  of 
SignoUes  that  he  was  gallant  and  wished  to  cut 
a  figure  before  women;  that  though  expert  with 
sword  and  pistol,  he  had  never  fought  a  duel. 
All  this  is  vital  to  the  story,  for  it  explains  what 
is  to  come.  From  this  introduction  the  experi- 
enced reader  anticipates  much  of  the  action, 
for  he  has  learned  to  observe  all  details  which 
an  author  sees  fit  to  give  him.     If  the  author 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION    79 

knows  his  business  and  selects  as  he  should,  no 
detail  will  be  without  its  reasonable  implica- 
tion. We  guess,  therefore,  that  Signolles  will 
fight  a  duel  over  a  woman.  From  his  expressed 
desire  to  employ  pistols  in  such  a  contingency 
so  that  he  may  be  "sure  of  his  man,"  we  sus- 
pect him  to  be  somewhat  of  a  braggart,  and  de- 
spite his  marksmanship  doomed  to  disaster. 
The  manner  of  his  failure  constitutes  the  story; 
yet  knowing  so  much  as  we  do,  our  interest  is 
in  no  sense  weakened;  rather  is  it  enhanced  by 
anticipation. 

In  Kipling's  story  also  we  have  this  foreknowl- 
edge, though  less  explicit.  The  remark  of 
Ameera  that  Holden  will  return  to  his  own  peo- 
ple in  time,  we  feel  prophetic  of  the  end.  Con- 
scious of  Holden's  genuine  passion  for  the  girl, 
we  surmise  that  only  some  tragic  event  can  force 
the  issue.     What  that  is,  we  read  to  see. 

How  great  is  this  necessity  of  an  accurate 
preparation  for  events  to  come  may  be  well  illus- 
trated by  a  passage  from  Stevenson  upon  the  un- 
certain artistry  of  Scott.  In  Guy  Mannering, 
one  of  Scott's  hastily  constructed  tales,  occurs 
the  incident  which  Stevenson  quotes: 

"I  remember  the  tune  well,"  he  says,  "though 
I  cannot  guess  what  should  at  present  so  strongly 
recall  it  to  my  memory."  He  took  his  flageolet 
from  his  pocket  and  played  a  simple  melody. 


So   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Apparently  the  tune  awoke  the  corresponding 
associations  of  a  damsel.  .  .  .  She  immediately 
took  up  the  song: 

"'Are  these  the  links  of  Forth/  she  said; 
*0r  are  they  the  crooks  of  Dee, 
Or  the  bonny  woods  of  Warroch  Head 
That  I  so  fain  would  see?' " 

"By  heaven!"  said  Bertram,  "it  is  the  very 
ballad." 

On  this  quotation  two  remarks  fall  to  be  made. 
First,  as  an  instance  of  modern  feeling  for  ro- 
mance, this  famous  touch  of  the  flageolet  and 
the  old  song  is  selected  by  Miss  Braddon  for 
omission.  Miss  Braddon's  idea  of  a  story,  like 
Mrs.  Todger's  idea  of  a  wooden  leg,  were  some- 
thing strange  to  have  expounded.  As  a  matter 
of  personal  experience,  Meg's  appearance  to  old 
Mr.  Bertram  on  the  road,  the  ruins  of  Dern- 
cleugh,  the  scene  of  the  flageolet,  and  the 
Dominie's  recognition  of  Harry  are  the  four 
strong  notes  that  continue  to  ring  in  the  mind 
after  the  book  is  laid  aside.  The  second  point 
is  still  more  curious.  The  reader  will  observe 
a  mark  of  excision  in  the  passage  as  quoted  by 
me.  Well,  here  is  how  it  runs  in  the  original: 
"a  damsel,  who,  close  behind  a  fine  spring  about 
half-way  down  the  descent,  and  which  had  once 
supplied  the  castle  with  water,  was  engaged  in 
bleaching  linen."  A  man  who  gave  in  such 
copy  would  be  discharged  from  the  staff  of  a 
daily  paper.     Scott  has   forgotten   to  prepare 


EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION    8i 

the  reader  for  the  presence  of  the  "damsel";  he 
has  forgotten  to  mention  the  spring  and  its  re- 
lation to  the  ruin;  and  now,  face  to  face  with 
his  omission,  instead  of  trying  back  and  starting 
fair,  crams  all  this  matter,  tail  foremost,  into 
a  single  shambling  sentence.  It  is  not  merely- 
bad  EngHsh  or  bad  style;  it  is  abominably  bad 
narrative  besides. 

In  the  artistry  exhibited  in  this  important 
matter  writers  vary  widely.  Some  are  even  too 
well  aware  of  the  necessity  for  preparation,  and 
give  overmany  hints.  Thus  in  De  Morgan's 
novel.  Somehow  Good,  so  great  stress  is  laid  upon 
the  heroine's  love  for  swimming  that  we  expect 
nothing  short  of  a  shipwreck  or  a  second  deluge. 
The  discriminating  reader  treasures  every  hint 
granted  him,  but  he  resents  overemphasis  as 
an  insult  to  his  intelligence. 

Poe's  Cask  of  Amontillado  is  an  excellent, 
though  somewhat  obvious,  illustration  of  care- 
ful artistry  in  exposition,  both  retrospective  and 
anticipatory.  I  shall  call  attention  to  a  number 
of  passages,  though  the  reader  should  examine 
them  in  their  context.  The  introductory  para- 
graph explains  the  motive  of  the  story — revenge. 
We  are  promised  revenge  of  which  the  victim 
shall  not  fail  to  know  the  source,  but  for  which 
the  doer  shall  go  unpunished.  This  is  the  pro- 
nouncement of  the  story's  theme.     Then  we  are 


82   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

told  that  Fortunate  had  one  weakness:  he  prided 
himself  upon  his  connoisseurship  in  wine.  We 
expect,  from  this,  poison,  but  hope  for  something 
more  novel  and  exciting. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  action  we  find  For- 
tunato  under  the  influence  of  wine,  and  from 
this  suspect  him  an  easy  prey  to  his  enemy, 
a  suspicion  made  certain  when  Montressor  says: 
"I  was  so  pleased  to  see  him  that  I  thought  I 
should  never  have  done  wringing  his  hand." 
Knowing  Montressor's  secret  purpose,  we  un- 
derstand his  pleasure  to  spring  from  some  evil 
design.  A  little  later  Fortunato  offers  to  accom- 
pany Montressor  to  the  latter's  wine-cellars  for 
the  purpose  of  testing  the  wine.  The  sinister 
stratagem  emerges  more  clearly  as  Montressor 
describes  the  unhealthful  atmosphere  of  the 
cellars,  which  cannot  but  be  dangerous  to  one 
with  a  cough.     Later: 

"Come,  we  will  go  back;  your  health  is  pre- 
cious. You  are  rich,  respected,  admired,  beloved; 
you  are  happy,  as  once  I  was.  You  are  a  man 
to  be  missed." 

Again: 

"Enough,"  he  said,  "the  cough  is  a  mere 
nothing;  it  will  not  kill  me.  I  shall  not  die  of 
a  cough." 

"True — true,"  I  replied. 


EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION    83 

There  are  other  obvious  hints,  but  one  more 
citation  will  suffice: 

"Then  you  are  not  of  the  brotherhood." 
"How?'^ 

"You  are  not  of  the  masons." 
"Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  "yes,  yes." 
"You?     Impossible!    A  mason?" 
"A  mason,"  I  replied. 
"A  sign,"  he  said. 

"It  is  this,"  I  answered,  producing  a  trowel 
from  beneath  the  folds  of  my  roquelaire. 

The  surprise  of  this  is  admirable,  though  it  in- 
timates the  catastrophe  perhaps  too  clearly. 

In  classifying  all  these  touches  as  exposition 
we  are,  it  may  be  objected,  doing  violence  to  the 
term.  Many  are  integral  parts  of  the  action, 
and  do  more  than  forecast  incidents  to  come; 
they  interest  of  themselves.  It  is  not  a  valid 
criticism.  Exposition,  as  in  The  Coward,  may 
simply  inform  us  of  things  we  should  know;  or 
it  may  come  as  dialogue  and  action,  and  serve 
a  double  purpose — narrative  and  expository. 
Yet  expository  in  the  main  it  is,  for  it  makes  the 
reader's  knowledge  of  impending  events  greater 
than  that  of  the  actors  in  the  story. 

If,  then,  in  a  good  story,  important  turns  of 
action  are  clearly  predicted,  we  must  at  this  point 
consider  accident  and  coincidence,  and  determine 
what  part,  if  any,  these  may  play  in  story  struc- 


84   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

ture.  Life  abounds  in  accidental  happenings, 
by  which  we  mean  turns  of  fate  that  cannot  be 
anticipated.  Nothing  is  accidental  in  a  sense; 
that  is,  everything  is  the  result  of  natural  law, 
and  this  result  is  predictable  to  any  one  fully 
cognizant  of  the  causes.  To  the  all-seeing  Cre- 
ator life  may  work  itself  out  like  a  problem  in 
mathematics,  and  its  conclusion  be  ever  inherent 
in  its  terms.  This  is  not  the  case,  however, 
with  human  vision.  Some  things,  it  is  true,  we 
may  safely  predict  from  our  knowledge  of  life 
and  human  relations.  But  how  may  I  know  my 
death?  A  tile  may  fall  from  the  roof  of  the 
building  before  which  I  pass  and  I  be  instantly 
killed.  Accidents  no  less  extraordinary  occur 
daily,  as  the  newspapers  attest.  What  use  may 
the  story  writer  make  of  such  accidents? 

A  clear  understanding  of  the  matter  may  best 
be  had  by  an  examination  of  the  point  of  view 
of  author  and  reader.  To  them,  the  develop- 
ment of  the  story  is  not,  as  is  life,  subject  to 
accidental  happenings,  but  is,  as  the  whole  of  life 
to  the  Creator,  predictable.  Thus  the  hero  of 
the  story  may  not  know  as  he  rides  into  battle 
that  he  goes  to  his  death;  but  the  author  and  I, 
the  reader,  know  this  as  certainly  as  from  a 
ghostly  premonition.  The  death  of  the  hero 
has  been  predetermined,  and  the  action  so  de- 
signed as  to  intimate  clearly  this  d6nouement. 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION    85 

The  characters  of  the  story  are  unaware  of  this 
prearrangement,  but  the  author,  and  to  a  less 
degree,  the  reader,  view  events  from  a  higher 
plane  of  understanding.  For  them  chance  does 
not  exist;  this  characteristic  of  life  has,  in  the 
story,  been  done  away  with.  Thus  we  say  the 
story  is  more  logical,  that  is,  more  predictable 
than  life.  Much  of  our  pleasure  in  reading  lies 
in  our  appreciation  of  this  story  logic. 

The  exact  nature  of  the  accidental  happening 
— accidental,  that  is,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  character — may  not  always  be  guessed  from 
the  early  circumstances  of  the  story.  Sometimes 
it  is  desirable  to  prepare  only  in  general  terms 
for  the  event  to  come,  its  exact  nature  being  left 
ambiguous  and  thus  exciting  our  curiosity  and 
interest.  Often,  however,  the  very  character  of 
the  conclusion  may  be  predicted.  Thus  in  The 
Cask  of  Amontillado  the  reader  guesses  almost 
exactly  the  expression  of  Montressor's  revenge. 
In  Kipling's  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy  we  know 
early  that  Toto  and  Ameera  will  die  of  the  plague. 
In  Hamlet  and  Romeo  and  Juliet  we  do  not  at 
first  know  the  exact  means  by  which  the  hero  of 
each  shall  die,  though  that  means  is  clear  some 
time  before  the  result.  The  tone  of  the  story, 
of  which  we  have  later  to  speak,  determines 
always  the  character  of  the  conclusion.  The 
preparatory  incidents  intimate  with  varying  de- 


86   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

grees  of  clearness  the  specific  means  by  which 
the  conclusion  is  realized. 

Coincidences  are  a  kind  of  accident.  Life  is 
filled  with  them.  It  is  a  coincidence  that  I 
meet  a  friend  on  the  street  in  Paris  or  in  New 
v/  Zealand.  A  story  permits  coincidehces  only  if 
the  result  is  not  momentous,  or  if  the  coincidence 
is  at  the  basis  of  the  story.  Let  us  endeavor  to 
make  the  point  clear.  The  story  may  grow  out 
of  the  chance  meeting  of  two  characters  thrown 
together  in  the  haphazard  fashion  of  life.  With 
this  we  do  not  quarrel;  the  writer  may,  at  the 
outset,  make  whatsoever  assumption  he  choose. 
But  suppose  the  story  under  way  and  every- 
thing dependent  upon  the  meeting  of  two  per- 
sons, the  whereabouts  of  each  unknown  to  the 
other.  That  they  will  meet  is  a  chance  in  a 
million.  If  I  seize  upon  that  chance  I  make  too 
momentous  a  result  hinge  upon  too  slight  a 
possibility.  My  reader  is  incredulous,  for  he 
feels  I  am  forcing  probabilities  unduly.  Smith, 
whom  I  knew  in  Des  Moines,  Iowa,  a  lawyer  by 
profession,  I  meet  in  Vladivostock.  The  cir- 
cumstance is  improbable;  if,  in  a  story,  much 
depends  upon  this  meeting,  it  is,  unless  pre- 
pared for,  incredible.  But  if  Smith  and  I  are 
both  interested  in  Russian  affairs,  and  fond  of 
travel,  and  this  is  made  known  at  the  outset  of 
the  story,  then  the  meeting  is  permissible,  for 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION    87 

the  reader  has  been  led  to  expect  something  of 
the  sort.  The  writer,  who  deals  not  in  chance, 
but  in  the  logical  sequence  of  events,  must  pre- 
pare for  coincidences  by  previous  suggestion. 
Then,  whatever  they  may  be  in  life,  they  cease 
in  the  story  to  be  accidents  at  all. 

I  once  read  a  story  developed  in  the  following 
terms :  A  young  woman  has  broken  her  engage- 
ment with  a  young  man  because  of  a  misunder- 
standing. She  meets,  on  a  railway  journey,  an 
old  lady  unknown  to  her,  who  volunteers  the 
story  of  her  son's  broken  engagement,  and  makes 
clear  the  honorable  cause  of  misunderstanding. 
The  girl  is,  of  course,  the  son's  former  fiancee, 
and  thus  events  are  shaped  to  a  happy  conclu- 
sion. There  are  here  too  many  chance  elements 
involved.  That  the  mother  and  girl  should  meet 
as  they  do  is  in  itself  improbable;  that  the  mother 
should  take  a  stranger — and  this  one  of  all  possi- 
ble strangers — into  her  confidence  concerning  the 
affairs  of  her  son  is  incredible.  It  might  occur 
in  life,  but  in  a  story  we  should  not  believe  it. 
The  mechanism  is  inadequate  to  the  story's  de- 
mands; the  two  persons  must  be  brought  to- 
gether and  made  to  talk  in  some  more  plausible 
fashion. 

Not  infrequently  the  writer  will  violate  the 
consistency  of  his  characters  to  force  a  story 
conclusion.    This  is  of  like  kind  with  accident 


88   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

and  coincidence,  for  the  story  turns  upon  a  devia- 
tion from  its  own  conditions.  An  example  may 
be  found  in  Guy  Wetmore  Caryll's  otherwise 
sound  story  The  Next  Corner.  The  situation  is 
this :  A  young  diplomat  who  has  run  through  his 
means  determines  upon  suicide.  As  he  returns 
to  his  apartments  he  meets  with  an  odd  character 
who  demands  a  drink,  and  whom  the  hero,  in 
whim,  invites  to  eat  with  him  in  his  rooms. 
They  talk,  and  the  guest  suspects  his  host's 
purpose  of  suicide.  All  this  is  credible,  and  we 
accept  it  readily.  But  when  the  visitor  pro- 
duces a  revolver,  and,  intimidating  his  host,  ties 
him  securely  in  a  chair,  we  are  unconvinced. 
Why  should  a  man  resolved  on  death  be  so 
easily  cowed?  It  is  true  that  he  might  be, 
but  no  revelation  in  his  character  hitherto  has 
I  ed  us  to  expect  the  inconsistency  when  it  occurs. 
The  reason  for  his  action  is  that  it  is  necessary 
to  the  solution  of  the  story.  He  must  remain 
bound  until  the  next  morning,  for  he  is  then  to 
receive  a  cablegram  announciiij  the  inheritance 
of  a  bequest  which  solves  his  dSficulties,  and  re- 
moves all  cause  for  suicide.  The  story  is  in 
many  ways  plausible,  but  the  inconsistency  of 
Ithe  character  at  the  crucial  moment — and  this 
unprepared  for — is  a  fatal  weakness.  Even  the 
excitement  induced  by  the  incidents  fails  to 
blind  us  to  the  improbability. 


EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION    89 

In  the  instance  cited,  that  of  a  character 
change  unanticipated,  we  call  the  weakness  in- 
adequate motivation;  there  was  not  sufficient 
cause  apparent  to  move  a  man  such  as  portrayed 
to  the  action  described.  Motivation  thus  in- 
volves the  question  of  character-drawing  as  well  / 
as  of  adequate  preparation,  that  is,  announce- 
ment of  impending  action.  In  As  You  Like  It 
Oliver,  the  wicked  brother,  undergoes  a  sudden 
transformation,  makes  restitution  to  Orlando, 
and  wins  the  love  of  Celia.  The  change  is  in- 
adequately motived,  and  the  action  dependent 
upon  the  change  is  consequently  weak.  Further- 
more, we  were  unprepared  by  any  hint  for  so 
marvellous  a  transformation  whereby  we  might 
have  been  led  to  anticipate  Oliver's  change  of 
heart,  even  though  we  disbelieved  in  it. 

Weak  motivation,  that  is,  action  resulting 
from  defective  or  inexplicable  characterization, 
is  only  too  common  in  all  but  the  best  literature. 
The  hero  must  be  put  into  hazardous  situations 
for  the  creation  of  suspense.  Therefore  passing 
strangers  conceive  violent  dislikes  and  pursue 
him  with  various  menaces.  He  must  be  saved; 
therefore  other  characters  inexpHcably  assist 
him.  This  is  but  a  variant  upon  the  employ- 
ment of  accident  or  coincidence.  To  the  hero 
it  is  truly  an  accident  that  he  is  endangered  or 
saved,  but  the  cause  therefor  springs  from  an 


go   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

inadequate  or  illogical  motivation  of  character. 
Yet  our  discussion  has  not  touched  the  root 
of  the  matter.  There  is  another  element  in- 
volved in  the  rationalization  of  experience  which 
is  the  essence  of  a  good  story.  Accident,  coin- 
cidence, and  weak  motivation,  true  perhaps  of 
life,  are  unsatisfactory  in  a  story,  for  the  reason 
that  a  cause  is  not  assigned  for  each  effect;  and 
a  story,  being  a  logical  structure,  must  be  a 
chain  of  causes  and  effects.  Not  only  this,  but 
the  cause  must  be  adequate  to  the  effect;  too 
vital  a  conclusion  must  not  depend  upon  too 
slight  a  cause. 

The  instances  of  Bruce  and  the  spider  and  oi 
the  horseshoe-nail  which  lost  a  kingdom  are 
cases  in  point.  Their  moral  is  that  great  re- 
sults depend  logically  upon  trifles.  Tliis,  in  life, 
is  true,  but  in  a  story  the  discrepancy  between 
the  immediate  cause  and  its  results  should  not 
be  great.  The  hero  stumbles  over  a  stone  in 
the  road,  and  his  enemy's  bullet  miscarries. 
Even  though  we  have  seen  the  stone  and  antic- 
ipated the  fall,  too  much  depends  here  upon  a 
slight  cause.  A  disaster  is  avoided  by  a  trivi- 
ality or,  in  another  instance,  caused  thereby. 
This  is  a  shock  to  our  logical  sense  or  to  some 
deeper  sense  of  justice  with  which  the  universe 
is  not  altogether  in  harmony.  Stevenson  notes 
somewhere  a  vital  turn  of  story-action  dependent 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION    91 

upon  a  mistake  in  time.  The  hands  of  a  clock 
are  turned  back,  and  an  otherwise  unavoidable 
happening  thus  prevented.  If  the  circumstance 
were  trivial,  the  means  would  suffice;  as  it  is 
vital,  the  means  is  inadequate.  In  life  we  are 
shocked  when  chance  plays  too  large  a  part  in 
destiny  and  moulds  events  in  haphazard  fashion. 
Our  sense  of  justice  demands  that  great  results 
hinge  upon  commensurate  causes.  It  is  a  matter 
of  logic.  If  a  chain  of  causes  is  established,  each 
more  vital  than  the  last,  we  may  from  a  trivial 
beginning  evolve  as  momentous  a  conclusion  as 
we  choose.  But  if  the  intervening  causes  are 
removed  and  the  trivial  first  cause  brought 
abruptly  in  contrast  with  a  catastrophic  conclu- 
sion, the  disharmony  is  offensive  to  us.  We 
then  enter  the  realm  of  accident,  with  which 
story  writing  has  not  to  do. 

Accident  and  coincidence,  then,  if  called  to 
the  writer's  aid  in  plot  solution,  must  be  so  pre- 
pared for  that  they  are  no  longer,  for  the  story, 
what  these  terms  indicate.  A  vital  develop- 
ment of  the  story  must  not  depend  upon  chance, 
but  upon  forces  previously  set  in  motion.  If 
the  incident  is  not  vital  to  the  action,  but  merely 
contributory,  accident  and  coincidence  are  less  / 
objectionable,  for  they  have  some  sanction  from 
the  world  without.  It  is  when  the  stake  is  large 
that  they  are  inadequate. 


92   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  surprise  story  seems  at  first  glance  to 
violate  the  principle  we  have  laid  down:  that  a 
story  is  a  logical  structure,  the  conclusion  of 
which  is  predictable  from  the  initial  incidents. 
It  is  not  in  reality  such  a  violation.  The  gen- 
eral tenor  of  its  conclusion  must  harmonize  with 
its  established  tone — be  tragic  or  humorous, 
pleasant  or  unpleasant,  as  the  case  may  be.* 
The  exact  terms  of  the  conclusion  are  not,  how- 
ever, so  apparent.  If  they  are  too  obvious  we 
cannot  anticipate  them  with  interest;  most 
stories  should,  therefore,  contaia  some  slight 
element  of  surprise;  that  is,  the  sj)ecific  terms 
of  the  conclusion  should  not  be  too  accurately 
guessed. 

In  the  true  surprise  story  the  terms  of  the 
conclusion  not  only  should  be  unguessed,  but 
the  imexpectedness  should  give  pleasure.  This 
pleasure  cannot  be,  however,  unless  the  reader 
feels  the  surprise  to  be  justifiable,  that  is,  that 
he  has  deceived  himself  into  expecting  one  solu- 
tion, whereas  a  second  was  equally  inherent  in 
the  terms  of  the  story.  The  detective  story  will 
afford  a  simple  illustration.  The  writer  here 
virtually  constructs  his  story  backward.  He 
commits  his  crime  in  a  certain  fashion,  con- 
structs a  chain  of  antecedent  circumstances,  and 
then  endeavors  to  obscure  this  chain.  It  is  as 
♦See  chapter  XIII,  "Unity  of  Tone." 


EXPOSITION  AND  PREPARATION    93 

though  he  first  made  a  path  to  his  goal,  the  ob- 
jective of  the  story,  and  then,  that  the  path 
might  not  be  too  obvious,  constructed  a  number 
of  blind  or  false  paths  which  cross  the  true  and 
perplex  it.  The  logical  sequence  of  incidents  is, 
to  change  the  figure,  embedded  in  a  mass  of 
irrelevant  happenings  which  serve  to  confuse 
the  reader.  In  this  maze  the  reader  finds  pleas- 
ure. As  he  looks  back  upon  the  story  he  should, 
however,  be  able  to  discern  clearly  the  true  se- 
quence from  which  he  has  been  legitimately 
seduced.  He^hould  feel  that,  had  he  been  more 
clever,  he  wuld  have  arrived  at  the  correct 
rather  than  the  false  solution. 

Not  all  writers  of  detective  stories  respect  this 
obHgation.  The  story  is  too  bafiiing,  and  the 
reader  feels  at  the  end  a  distinct  sense  of  dis- 
appointment. The  game  was  not  a  fair  one; 
he  has  been  tricked.  I  recall  a  detective  story 
entitled  The  Mystery  of  the  Yellow  Room  and 
its  sequel.  The  Perfume  of  the  Lady  in  Black, 
both  of  which  violate  this  requirement,  and 
which  are,  therefore,  not  honestly  constructed. 
In  the  first  the  criminal  proves  to  be  the  chief 
of  the  detective  bureau.  How  this  criminal, 
long  sought  by  the  police,  could  in  a  few  years 
enter  the  force,  rise  to  be  chief,  and  escape  de- 
tection the  while,  defies  explanation.  In  the 
second  story  the  criminal  kidnaps  the  prospec- 


94   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

tive  second  husband  of  his  own  former  wife, 
disguises  himself,  and,  taking  the  place  of  the 
bridegroom,  himself  marries  the  woman.  We 
cannot  swallow  so  impossible  a  situation,  and, 
inasmuch  as  the  story  turns  upon  it,  we  are  be- 
wildered and  baffled,  and  in  the  end  disgusted 
— not  with  our  own  inability  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery, but  with  the  author's  craftsmanship.  He 
has  not  played  the  game  fairly. 

The  surprise  should,  then,  be  prepared  for,  and 
our  momentary  shock  at  the  revelation  be  fol- 
lowed by  acquiescence  and  pleasure.  Upon  re- 
viewing the  story  we  should  detect  the  hints 
which  would  have  sufficed  to  guide  us  had  we 
been  truly  alert.  These  must  be  adequate  or 
we  shall  feel  ourselves  to  have  been  cheated; 
they  must  not,  however,  be  too  transparent,  for 
the  story  will  then  fail  of  its  purpose.  It  is  not 
easy  to  hit  upon  the  mean. 

Stockton's  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  is  the  most 
famous  example  of  the  surprise  story.  In  this 
the  author  builds  up  a  series  of  incidents  sub- 
ject to  two  solutions.  Either  will  be  acceptable, 
for  the  story  turns  upon  an  ambiguous  point  of 
psychology.  The  surprise  is  the  author's  re- 
fusal to  commit  himself  to  either  alternative; 
he  leaves  the  nicely  balanced  problem  to  the 
reader.  The  device  is  excellent,  but  cannot 
often   be   repeated.     Stockton   employed   it   a 


EXPOSITION  AND   PREPARATION    95 

second  time,  but  with  less  effect,  in  The  Discour- 
ager of  Hesitancy.  O.  Henry  employs  a  variant 
upon  it  in  Thimble  Thimble.  O.  Henry  has 
written  a  number  of  excellent  surprise  stories, 
but  these  fall,  for  the  most  part,  under  a  later 
division  of  our  subject,  "Unity  of  Tone,"  a 
chapter  supplementary  to  many  of  the  points 
here  discussed. 

The  importance  of  the  principles  we  have 
formulated  in  this  chapter  the  reader  will  best 
appreciate  upon  an  examination  of  many  stories. 
Let  him  ask  himself  these  questions:  Why  does 
the  author  tell  me  this?  Is  he  overexplicit?  Or, 
at  the  conclusion  of  a  story:  Did  the  writer  tell 
me  everything  I  should  know?  These  questions 
the  author  endeavors  to  anticipate  as  he  writes. 
It  is  required  of  him  that  he  plan  his  story  care- 
fully, and  that  at  the  outset  he  know  the  end  and 
the  steps  to  it.  He  must  explain  enough,  and  not 
too  much.  He  has,  for  the  accomplishment  of 
this,  various  resources,  dependent  in  large  part 
upon  his  point  of  view.  The  more  restricted  the 
point  of  view,  the  more  difficult  will  be  the  man- 
agement of  the  exposition.  Exposition  must 
not,  last  of  all,  be  presented  in  too  large  and  un- 
assimilable  lumps.  For  the  reader  may  then  be 
bored  and  skip,  thus  missing  points  essential  to 
an  understanding  of  the  plot. 


/ 


CHAPTER  VI 


INTRODUCTIONS.    THE  ORDER  OF 
NARRATION 

How  should  a  story  begin?  It  is  a  question 
to  be  answered  afresh  with  every  story,  and,  as 
it  is  important,  we  must  discuss  it  with  some 
particularity.  Certain  it  is  that  a  story  should 
begin  so  attractively  that  the  reader  will  be 
tempted  to  go  further  with  it,  for  he  is  under  no 
obligation  to  read,  and  must  be  seduced  into 
doing  so. 

The  problem  of  the  introduction  is  complicated 
by  the  necessity  for  exposition.*  This,  if  given 
by  the  author  in  his  own  words,  is  often  heavy, 
and,  though  necessary  to  a  clear  understanding 
of  the  story,  is  in  itself  uninteresting.  Many 
writers,  therefore,  get  done  with  it  at  the  outset. 
Yet,  in  such  a  case,  what  shall  immediately  suc- 
ceed the  initial  exposition  remains  undetermined. 
So,  too,  if  the  exposition  be  thoroughly  dissolved 
in  action  and  dialogue,  the  nature  of  the  open- 
ing scene  must  still  be  decided  upon.    What, 

*See  chapter  V,  "Exposition  and  Preparation." 
06 


INTRODUCTIONS  97 

aside  from  the  general  principle  of  attractive- 
ness, should  guide  the  writer  to  a  choice  of  an 
effective  opening? 

The  practice  of  many  writers  is  to  begin  the 
story  in  a  manner  characteristic  of  the  story  as  a 
whole.  A  story  should  be  highly  unified,  be  all 
of  a  piece.  Therefore  it  should  strike  its  note 
at  the  outset,  and  with  certainty.  A  story  of 
adventurous  action  may  well  begin  with  the  nar- 
ration of  an  incident;  one  of  character,  with 
dialogue,  analysis,  or  personal  description;  a 
story  concerned  with  background  or  setting  may 
open  descriptively;  one  of  idea  may  begin  with  a 
generalization  or  a  bit  of  philosophy.  Of  course 
there  is  no  obligation  that  the  writer  observe 
these  practices.  Merely  it  is  advisable  that  he 
have  them  in  mind  as  a  possible  means  of  effect- 
ing his  purpose,  which  is  to  devise  an  opening 
characteristic  of,  and  in  harmony  with,  his  story 
as  a  whole. 

Yet,  though  a  story  should  begin  both  char- 
acteristically and  interestingly,  caution  is  here 
needed.  The  meretricious  author  begins  in- 
vitingly with  a  brisk  show  of  action,  or  lively 
characterization  and  dialogue,  significant  we 
hope,  of  something  still  better  to  come.  And 
that  something  is  never  realized.  This  is  a  most 
irritating  thing,  and  the  reader  so  tricked  will 
never  forget  nor  forgive.    I  remember  once, 


98   ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

when  a  boy,  tackling  a  novel  by  Charlotte  M. 
Yonge.  In  the  opening  pages  there  was  a  brave 
glitter  of  action  and  knightly  adventure,  and  I 
thought  I  had  unearthed  a  treasure.  After  a  bit 
I  detected  something  ominous,  and,  my  suspicions 
aroused,  I  turned  deliberately  to  the  last  pages, 
to  do  which  was  not  my  usual  practice.  There, 
indeed,  the  trickery  of  the  book  lay  revealed: 
he  entered  a  monastery,  and  she  a  nunnery. 
Who  she  was  I  never  knew,  nor  have  I  ever  since 
read  a  page  of  Miss  Yonge's  edifying  works. 

In  the  literary  shop  the  wise  dealer  labels  his 
goods.  If  you  do  not  want  them,  you  may 
leave  them;  he  will  not  attempt  to  sell  you  a 
garment  half  cotton  in  the  guise  of  wool,  for  you 
will  discover  the  deception  to  his  cost.  But  if 
he  is  honest  you  may  buy,  even  though  his  stock 
be  scant,  and  the  quahty  indifferent.  Honesty 
and  good  intent  go  far  to  reconcile  us  to  a  lack 
of  brains. 

The  danger  latent  in  the  glittering  introduc- 
tion leads  many  writers  to  proceed  cautiously. 
The  story  may  be  replete  with  fascinating  in- 
cident and  its  first  pages  be  far  from  diverting. 
Those  readers  who  persevere  then  congratulate 
themselves  as  the  going  becomes  easier,  and  the 
writer,  by  contrast  with  his  dulness  at  the  outset, 
seems  astonishingly  bright.  The  danger,  how- 
ever, is  that  the  reader  will  never  persevere. 


INTRODUCTIONS  99 

Most  of  us,  nowadays,  have  lost  the  habit  of 
reading  a  book  from  cover  to  cover  as  a  moral 
exercise.  Our  interest  must  be  aroused  and  held 
or  we  will  have  none  of  it.  The  shorter  the  story, 
the  truer  this  generalization.  In  a  novel,  as,  for 
example,  one  of  Scott's,  I  can  get  pleasure  by 
dropping  whole  paragraphs,  and  pages  here  and 
there — picking  the  plums  out  of  it,  so  to  speak. 
But  the  short  story,  more  compactly  built,  can- 
not be  so  treated,  for  to  omit  a  page  is  to 
lose  something  vital  to  the  intelligibility  of  the 
action. 

Before  the  citation  of  typical  story  openings 
perhaps  a  word  should  be  said  of  the  story  which 
begins  with  a  bit  of  philosophy  expressive  of  the 
story  theme,  or  a  comment  upon  hfe  which  the 
story  is  designed  to  illustrate.  This  has  the 
virtue  of  frankness  if  the  story  is  genuinely  illus- 
trative of  the  philosophy,  and  not  irrelevant  to 
it;  or  of  humor  if  the  generalization  is  absurd 
or  is  made  in  mock  seriousness.  The  danger  is, 
of  course,  that  the  reader  who  prefers  to  draw 
his  own  moral  and  make  his  own  inferences  will 
be  uncomfortable  in  the  presence  of  abstract 
truths,  and  withdraw  from  the  story.  Most  of 
us  object  on  principle  to  moralizing,  and  prefer 
the  story  only.  The  writer  may,  however, 
moralize  so  cleverly  as  to  justify  the  method. 
Kipling  is  highly  successful  here,  and  in  many  of 


loo  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

his  earlier  stories  succeeds  in  interesting  us  by 
this  method.  Poe,  too,  whose  themes  are  often 
interesting  chiefly  by  reason  of  the  underlying 
idea,  often  generalizes  to  advantage. 

A  few  examples  of  story  openings  are  cited: 

Denis  de  Beaulieu  was  not  yet  two-and- twenty, 
but  he  counted  himself  a  grown  man,  and  a  very 
accomplished  cavalier  into  the  bargain.  Lads 
were  early  formed  in  that  rough,  warfaring  epoch; 
and  when  one  has  been  in  a  pitched  battle  and 
a  dozen  raids,  has  killed  one's  man  in  an  honor- 
able fashion  and  knows  a  thing  or  two  of  strategy 
and  mankind,  a  certain  swagger  in  the  gait  is 
surely  to  be  pardoned.  He  had  put  up  his  horse 
with  due  care,  and  supped  with  due  deliberation; 
and  then,  in  a  very  agreeable  frame  of  mind, 
went  out  to  pay  a  visit  in  the  gray  of  the  even- 
ing. It  was  not  a  very  wise  proceeding  on  the 
young  man's  part.  He  would  have  done  better 
to  remain  beside  the  fire  or  go  decently  to  bed. 
For  the  town  was  full  of  the  troops  of  Burgundy 
and  England  under  a  mixed  command;  and 
though  Denis  was  there  on  safe-conduct,  his 
safe-conduct  was  like  to  serve  him  little  on  a 
chance  encounter. 

It  was  September,  1429;  the  weather  had 
fallen  sharp;  a  flighty  piping  wind,  laden  with 
showers,  beat  about  the  township;  and  the  dead 
leaves  ran  riot  along  the  streets.  Here  and  there 
a  window  was  already  lighted  up;  and  the  noise 
of  men-at-arms  making  merry  over  supper 
within,  came  forth  in  fits  and  was  swallowed  up 


INTRODUCTIONS  ;  \\i }  \J  loi 

and  carried  away  by  the  wind,  /£h^  n^^t  j[elj 
swiftly;  the  flag  of  England,  fluttering  on  the' 
spire  top,  grew  ever  fainter  and  fainter  against 
the  flying  clouds — a  black  speck  like  a  swallow 
in  the  tumultuous,  leaden  chaos  of  the  sky.  As 
the  night  fell  the  wind  rose,  and  began  to  hoot 
under  the  archways  and  roar  amid  the  tree-tops 
in  the  valley  below  the  town. — (Stevenson,  The 
Sire  de  Maletroit^s  Door) 

Here  exposition  and  description  of  place  set 
forth  briefly  the  conditions  essential  to  a  story 
of  adventure.  It  is  night,  the  scene  a  city  filled 
with  unseen  dangers.  That  it  is  autumn  en- 
hances the  mystery  of  the  dark  houses,  which 
shut  out  the  sharp  wind.  The  hero  is  a  young 
soldier,  well  fitted,  in  the  warlike  epoch  de- 
scribed, to  be  the  centre  of  stirring  adventure. 

''But  if  it  be  a  girl?" 

"Lord  of  my  life,  it  cannot  be.  I  have  prayed 
for  so  many  nights,  and  sent  gifts  to  Sheikh 
Badl's  shrine  so  often,  that  I  know  God  will  give 
us  a  son — a  man-child  that  shall  grow  into  a 
man.  Think  of  this  and  be  glad.  My  mother 
shall  be  his  mother  till  I  can  take  him  again, 
and  the  mullah  of  the  Pattan  mosque  shall  cast 
his  nativity — God  send  he  be  born  in  an  aus- 
picious hour! — and  then,  and  then  thou  wilt 
never  weary  of  me,  thy  slave." 

"Since  when  hast  thou  been  a  slave,  my 
queen?" 

"Since  the  beginning — till  this  mercy  came 


;  i02  vARlj  QF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

rtpoDie.;  iHpW'fpuM  I  be  sure  of  thy  love  when  I 
'knew  tha£  I  had  been  bought  with  silver?" 

"Nay,  that  was  the  dowry.  I  paid  it  to  thy 
mother." 

"And  she  has  buried  it,  and  sits  upon  it  all 
day  long  like  a  hen.  What  talk  is  yours  of 
dower!  I  was  bought  as  though  I  had  been  a 
Lucknow  dancing-girl  instead  of  a  child." 

"Art  thou  sorry  for  the  sale?" 

"I  have  sorrowed;  but  to-day  I  am  glad. 
Thou  wilt  never  cease  to  love  me  now? — answer, 
my  king?  " 

"Never — never.    No." 

"Not  even  though  the  mem-log — the  white 
women  of  thy  own  blood — love  thee?  And  re- 
member, I  have  watched  them  driving  in  the 
evening;   they  are  very  fair." 

"I  have  seen  fire-balloons  by  the  hundred.  I 
have  seen  the  moon,  and — then  I  saw  no  more 
fire-balloons." 

Ameera  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed. 
"Very  good  talk,"  she  said.  Then  with  an  as- 
sumption of  great  stateliness:  "it  is  enough. 
Thou  hast  my  permission  to  depart — if  thou 
wilt." — (Kipling,  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy.) 

The  story  here  indicated  is  one  essentially 
domestic,  though  with  an  atmosphere  of  uncon- 
ventionality  and  strangeness.  That  it  is  to  be 
tragic  in  its  denouement  is,  as  I  have  remarked 
in  another  place,  sufficiently  manifest. 

A  military  friend  of  mine,  who  died  of  a  fever 
in  Greece  a  few  ^ears  ago,  told  me  one  day  about 


INTRODUCTIONS  103 

the  first  action  in  which  he  took  part.  His 
story  made  such  an  impression  on  me  that  I 
wrote  it  down  from  memory  as  soon  as  I  had 
time.     Here  it  is: 

I  joined  the  regiment  on  the  fourth  of  Septem- 
ber, in  the  evening.  I  found  the  colonel  in  camp. 
He  received  me  rather  roughly;  but  when  he 
had  read  General  B — 's  recommendation,  his 
manner  changed  and  he  said  a  few  courteous 
words  to  me. 

I  was  presented  by  him  to  my  captain,  who 
had  just  returned  from  a  reconnaissance.  This 
captain,  with  whom  I  hardly  had  time  to  become 
acquainted,  was  a  tall,  dark  man,  with  a  harsh, 
repellent  face.  He  had  been  a  private  and  had 
won  his  epaulets  and  cross  on  the  battle-field. 
His  voice,  which  was  hoarse  and  weak,  contrasted 
strangely  with  his  almost  gigantic  stature.  I 
was  told  that  he  owed  that  peculiar  voice  to  a 
bullet  which  had  passed  through  his  lungs  at 
the  battle  of  Jena. 

When  he  had  learned  that  I  was  fresh  from 
the  school  at  Fontainebleau,  he  made  a  wry 
face  and  said: 

*'My  lieutenant  died  yesterday." 

I  understood  that  he  meant  to  imply:  ''You 
ought  to  take  his  place,  and  you  are  not  capable 
of  it." — (Merimee,  The  Taking  of  the  Redoubt.) 

The  story  is  thus  set  forth  unmistakably  as  a 
tale  of  warfare,  with  stirring  action  promised. 
The  first  paragraph  is  purely  superfluous.  An 
author  of  to-day  would  not  feel  it  necessary  to 


I04  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

explain  how  the  tale  came  to  be.     The  pretence 
of  plausibility  is  too  thin,  and  adds  nothing. 

The  Nellie,  a  cruising  yawl,  swung  to  her 
anchor  without  a  flutter  of  the  sails,  and  was  at 
rest.  The  flood  had  made,  the  river  was  nearly 
calm,  and  being  bound  down  the  river,  the  only 
thing  for  it  was  to  come  to  and  wait  for  the  turn 
of  the  tide. 

The  sea-reach  of  the  Thames  stretched  before 
us  like  the  beginning  of  an  interminable  water- 
way. In  the  ofiing  the  sea  and  the  sky  were 
welded  together  without  a  joint,  and  in  the 
luminous  space  the  tanned  sails  of  the  barges 
drifting  up  with  the  tide  seemed  to  stand  still 
in  red  clusters  of  canvas  sharply  peaked,  with 
gleams  of  varnished  sprits.  A  haze  rested  on  the 
low  shores  that  ran  out  to  sea  in  vanishing  flat- 
ness. The  air  was  dark  above  Gravesend,  and 
farther  back  still  seemed  condensed  into  a 
mournful  gloom,  brooding  motionless  over  the 
biggest,  and  the  greatest,  town  on  earth. 

.  .  .  The  day  was  ending  in  a  serenity  of  still 
and  exquisite  brilliance.  The  water  shone  pacif- 
ically; the  sky,  without  a  speck,  was  a  benign 
immensity  of  unstained  light;  the  very  mist  on 
the  Essex  marshes  was  like  a  gauzy  and  radiant 
fabric,  hung  from  the  wooded  rises  inland,  and 
draping  the  low  shores  in  diaphanous  folds. 
Only  the  gloom  to  the  west,  brooding  over  the 
upper  reaches,  became  more  sombre  every  min- 
ute, as  if  angered  by  the  approach  of  the  sun. 

And  at  last,  in  its  curved  and  imperceptible 
fall,  the  sun  sank  low,  and  from  glowing  white 


INTRODUCTIONS  105 

changed  to  a  dull  red  without  rays  and  without 
heat,  as  if  about  to  go  out  suddenly,  stricken  to 
death  by  the  touch  of  that  gloom  brooding  over 
a  crowd  of  men. 

Forthwith  a  change  came  over  the  waters, 
and  the  serenity  became  less  brilliant  but  more 
profound.  The  old  river  in  its  broad  reach 
rested  unruffled  at  the  decline  of  day,  after  ages 
of  good  service  done  to  the  race  that  peopled 
its  banks,  spread  out  in  the  tranquil  dignity  of  a 
waterway  leading  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the 
earth.  We  looked  at  the  venerable  stream  not 
in  the  vivid  flush  of  a  short  day  that  comes  and 
departs  forever,  but  in  the  august  light  of  abid- 
ing memories.  And  indeed  nothing  is  easier  for 
a  man  who  has,  as  the  phrase  goes,*' followed  the 
sea"  with  reverence  and  affection,  than  to  evoke 
the  great  spirit  of  the  past  upon  the  lower  reaches 
of  the  Thames.  The  tidal  current  runs  to  and 
fro  in  its  unceasing  service,  crowded  with  mem- 
ories of  men  and  ships  it  had  borne  to  the  rest 
of  home  or  to  the  battles  of  the  seas.  It  had 
known  and  served  all  the  men  of  whom  the 
nation  is  proud,  from  Sir  Francis  Drake  to  Sir 
John  Franklin,  knights  all,  titled  and  untitled — 
the  great  knights-errant  of  the  sea.  It  had  borne 
all  the  ships  whose  names  are  like  jewels  flash- 
ing in  the  night  of  time,  from  the  Golden  Hind 
returning  with  her  round  flanks  full  of  treasure, 
to  be  visited  by  the  Queen's  Highness  and  thus 
pass  out  of  the  gigantic  tale,  to  the  Erebus  and 
Terror,  bound  on  other  conquests — and  that 
never  returned.  It  had  known  the  ships  and 
the  meii.     They  had  sailed  from  Deptford,  from 


io6  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Greenwich,  from  Erith — the  adventurers  and 
the  settlers;  King's  ships  and  the  ships  of  the 
men  on  'Change;  captains,  admirals,  the  dark 
''interlopers"  of  the  Eastern  trade,  and  the  com- 
missioned "generals"  of  East  India  fleets. 
Hunters  of  gold  or  pursuers  of  fame,  they  had 
all  gone  out  on  that  stream,  bearing  the  sword, 
and  often  the  torch,  messengers  of  the  might 
within  the  land,  bearers  of  a  spark  from  the 
sacred  fire.  What  greatness  had  not  floated  on 
the  ebb  of  that  river  into  the  mystery  of  an  un- 
known earth!  .  .  .  The  dreams  of  men,  the  seed 
of  commonwealths,  the  germs  of  empires. 

The  sun  set;  the  dusk  fell  on  the  stream,  and 
lights  began  to  appear  along  the  shore.  The 
Chapman  light-house,  a  three-legged  thing  erect 
on  a  mud-fiat,  shone  strongly.  Lights  of  ships 
moved  in  the  fairway — a  great  stir  of  lights 
going  up  and  down.  And  farther  west  on  the 
upper  reaches  the  place  of  the  monstrous  town 
was  still  marked  ominously  on  the  sky,  a  brood- 
ing gloom  in  sunshine,  a  lurid  glare  under  the 
stars. 

''And  this  also,"  said  Marlow  suddenly,  "has 
been  one  of  the  dark  places  of  the  earth." 


"I  was  thinking  of  very  old  times,  when  the 
Romans  first  came  here,  nineteen  hundred  years 
ago — the  other  day.  .  .  .  Light  came  out  of  this 
river  since — you  say  Knights?  Yes;  but  it  is 
like  a  running  blaze  on  a  plain,  like  a  flash  of 
lightning  in  the  clouds.  We  live  in  the  flicker — 
may  it  last  as  long  as  the  old  earth  keeps  rolling! 


INTRODUCTIONS  107 

But  darkness  was  here  yesterday.  Imagine  the 
feelings  of  a  commander  of  a  fine — what  d'ye  call 
'em? — trireme  in  the  Mediterranean,  ordered 
suddenly  to  the  north;  run  overland  across  the 
Gauls  in  a  hurry;  put  in  charge  of  one  of  these 
craft  the  legionaries — a  wonderful  lot  of  handy 
men  they  must  have  been  too — used  to  build, 
apparently  by  the  hundred,  in  a  month  or  two, 
if  we  may  believe  what  we  read.  Imagine  him 
here — the  very  end  of  the  world,  a  sea  the  color 
of  lead,  a  sky  the  color  of  smoke,  a  kind  of  ship 
about  as  rigid  as  a  concertina — and  going  up  this 
river  with  stores,  or  orders,  or  what  you  like. 
Sandbanks,  marshes,  forests,  savages, — precious 
Httle  to  eat  fit  for  a  civilized  man,  nothing  but 
Thames  water  to  drink.  No  Falernian  wine  here, 
no  going  ashore.  Here  and  there  a  military  camp 
lost  in  a  wilderness,  like  a  needle  in  a  bundle 
of  hay — cold,  fog,  tempests,  disease,  exile,  and 
death, — death  skulking  in  the  air,  in  the  water, 
in  the  bush.  They  must  have  been  dying  like 
flies  here.  .  .  .  Land  in  a  swamp,  march  through 
the  woods,  and  in  some  inland  post  feel  the  sav- 
agery, the  utter  savagery,  had  closed  around 
him, — all  that  mysterious  life  of  the  wilderness 
that  stirs  in  the  forest,  in  the  jungles,  in  the 
hearts  of  wild  men.  There's  no  initiation  either 
into  such  mysteries.  He  has  to  live  in  the  midst 
of  the  incomprehensible,  which  is  also  detestable. 
And  it  has  a  fascination,  too,  that  goes  to  work 
upon  him.  The  fascination  of  the  abomination — 
you  know.  Imagine  the  growing  regrets,  the 
longing  to  escape,  the  powerless  disgust,  the  sur- 
render, the  hate." — (Conrad,  Heart  of  Darkness.) 


io8  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

This  story,  it  is  true,  has  no  connection  with 
England  save  as  England,  a  civilized  country, 
contrasts  with  the  Congo.  The  story  has  to  do 
with  that  contrast  and  is  largely  descriptive. 
The  introduction  is,  therefore,  in  character. 
The  story  is,  moreover,  long,  though  structurally 
like  a  short  story,  and  its  introduction  is  in  pro- 
portion. 

This  type  of  story,  that  concerned  with  back- 
ground primarily,  is  rather  rare  in  English  litera- 
ture, and  appropriate  illustrations  are  .  conse- 
quently few.  Descriptive  story  openings  of  a 
purely  conventional  sort  are,  of  course,  common 
enough. 

The  mental  features  discoursed  of  as  the  ana- 
lytical, are,  in  themselves,  but  little  susceptible 
of  analysis.  We  appreciate  them  only  in  their 
elBFects.  We  know  of  them,  among  other  things, 
that  they  are  always  to  their  possessor,  when 
inordinately  possessed,  a  source  of  the  liveliest 
enjoyment.  As  the  strong  man  exults  in  his 
physical  ability,  delighting  in  such  exercises 
as  call  his  muscles  into  action,  so  glories  the 
analyst  in  that  moral  activity  which  disen- 
tangles. .  He  derives  pleasure  from  even  the 
most  trivial  occupations  bringing  his  talent  into 
play.  He  is  fond  of  enigmas,  of  conundrums, 
of  hieroglyphics;  exhibiting  in  his  solutions  of 
each  a  degree  of  acumen  which  appears  to  the 
ordinary  apprehension  praeternatural.  His  re- 
sults, brought  about  by  the  very  soul  and  es- 


INTRODUCTIONS  109 

sence  of  method,  have,  in  truth,  the  whole  air 
of  intuition. — (Poe,  The  Murders  in  the  Rtie 
Morgue.) 

This  is  but  the  first  paragraph  of  Poe's  story. 
There  follow  several  more  in  a  Uke  strain.  The 
story  itself,  though  exciting  enough,  is  chiefly 
interesting  to  the  author  for  its  underlying  idea. 
Hence  his  long  analytical  introduction — too  long 
perhaps  for  many  readers. 

Kipling's  handling  of  the  same  method  is  well 
illustrated  in  this  from  Thrown  Away: 

To  rear  a  boy  under  what  parents  call  the 
''sheltered  life  system"  is,  if  the  boy  must  go 
into  the  world  and  fend  for  himself,  not  wise. 
Unless  he  be  one  in  a  thousand  he  has  to  pass 
through  many  unnecessary  troubles;  and  may, 
possibly,  come  to  extreme  grief  simply  from  ig- 
norance of  the  proper  proportions  of  things. 

Let  a  puppy  eat  the  soap  in  the  bath-room  or 
chew  a  newly-blacked  boot.  He  chews  and 
chuckles  until,  by  and  by,  he  finds  out  that 
blacking  and  Old  Brown  Windsor  make  him  very 
sick;  so  he  argues  that  soap  and  boots  are  not 
wholesome.  Any  old  dog  about  the  house  will 
soon  show  him  the  unwisdom  of  biting  big  dogs' 
ears.  Being  young,  he  remembers,  and  goes 
abroad,  at  six  months,  a  well  mannered  little 
beast  with  a  chastened  appetite.  If  he  had  been 
kept  away  from  boots,  and  soap,  and  big  dogs 
till  he  came  to  the  trinity  full-grown  and  with 
developed  teeth,  just  consider  how  fearfully  sick 


no  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

and  thrashed  he  would  be!  Apply  that  notion 
to  the  "sheltered  life"  and  see  how  it  works. 
It  does  not  sound  pretty,  but  it  is  the  better  of 
two  evils. 

There  was  a  Boy  once  who  had  been  brought 
up  under  the  "sheltered  life"  theory;  and  the 
theory  killed  him  dead.  .  .  . — (KJpling,  Thrown 
Away.) 

The  passage  is  illustrative  of  Kipling's  so- 
called  journaHstic  method,  which  he  employs 
often  in  his  earlier  stories.  It  is,  in  brief,  this: 
to  announce  at  the  outset  the  story  theme,  its 
essential  fact,  and  then  to  elaborate  it.  The 
method  resembles  that  of  the  newspaper  "story" 
in  so  far  as  a  newspaper  seeks  to  give  the  essence 
of  the  news  in  the  first  paragraph,  and  to  expand 
or  retell  this  in  succeeding  paragraphs.  Of 
course  the  writer  does  not  give  his  story  away  so 
far  that  it  no  longer  excites  our  interest.  Rather 
is  our  curiosity  aroused  to  see  the  development 
of  the  theme  announced,  as  in  a  symphony  the 
early  announcement  of  a  motif  does  not  detract 
from  but  rather  enhances  the  pleasure  which  we 
take  in  its  elaboration. 

We  may,  then,  summarize  briefly.  In  the  in- 
troduction the  story  may  do  one  of  several 
things:  it  may  begin  with  exposition  rather  than 
introduce  this  later  at  the  risk  of  retarding  the 
story-action;    or  it   may  at   once  indicate  its 


INTRODUCTIONS  iii 

character  (this  may  be  done  to  some  extent 
even  in  exposition)  by  beginning  in  a  fashion/N 
characteristic  of  the  theme:  if  a  story  of  action, 
with  action;  if  of  character,  with  dialogue,  an- 
alysis, or  personal  description;  if  a  story  of 
place,  with  description;  or  if  concerned  with  an 
abstract  idea,  with  a  generalization.  There  is 
no  rule  other  than  this:  a  good  writer  indicates 
as  soon  as  he  can,  the  kind  of  story  which  he 
has  to  tell. 

The  Order  of  Narration 

In  our  second  chapter,  that  upon  the  logic  of 
narrative,  it  was  assumed  that  a  story  follows  a 
strictly  chronological  order.  In  general  this  is 
true;  by  far  the  greater  part  of  stories  pursue 
the  temporal  order.  In  a  novel  which  involves 
several  groups  of  characters  not  intimately  re- 
lated throughout,  the  writer  sometimes  finds  it 
necessary  to  double  back  for  the  purpose  of 
bringing  up  the  rear-guard  of  his  story.  Thus 
in  the  novels  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Scott, 
the  several  stories  are  carried  singly  over  a  period 
of  time.  This  method  need  not  much  concern 
us  here,  however,  for  the  action  of  a  short  story 
must,  of  necessity,  concern  itself  with  but  a  few 
characters,  and  for  this  reason  there  is  little 
justification  for  more  than  a  single  centre  of 
interest.    Nevertheless,  an  occasional  deviation 


112  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

from  the  time  order  is  to  be  found  in  stories 
which,  by  common  consent,  are  regarded  as  ex- 
cellent. The  reasons  for  such  exceptions  we 
should  note. 

In  Kipling's  The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King 
the  initial  incidents  explain  the  author's  meeting 
with  the  chief  characters  of  the  story,  who  lay 
their  plans  to  enter  Kafirstan  and  depart  upon 
their  enterprise.  Several  years  elapse  before  the 
survivor  of  the  expedition  returns  to  tell  the 
story  of  the  intervening  period.  This  deviation 
from  the  strict  order  of  chronology  is  but  slight; 
indeed,  all  the  story's  action  to  the  point  of  the 
survivor's  narrative  may  be  regarded  as  intro- 
ductory merely,  an  introduction  designed  to 
give  verisimihtude  to  an  otherwise  incredible 
yam.  Exposition  of  events  precedent  to  the 
story's  action,  and  introduced  after  the  action 
has  been  begun,  is  analogous  to  this  instance.* 
Interest  once  aroused,  the  exposition  may  turn 
to  antecedent  circumstances. 

Interest,  effectiveness — these  are  the  sole  jus- 
tification for  a  deviation  from  the  strict  order 
ot  time.  Notable  stories  there  are  which  violate 
this  precept,  and  which  are  yet  both  clear  and 
effective.  Such  a  one  is  Balzac's  La  Grande 
Breteche.  In  this,  the  story  proper  begins  with 
the  death  of  the  principal  character,  after  which 
*  See  chapter  V,  "  Exposition  and  Preparation." 


INTRODUCTIONS  113 

we  have  the  beginning  and  the  succeeding  action. 
Balzac's  purpose  in  departing  from  the  time 
order  was  doubtless  threefold.  He  wished  to 
include  the  effective  death-bed  scene  with  which 
the  story  opens.  Yet  this  in  the  order  of  occur- 
rence comes  at  a  considerable  interval  from  the 
events  which  determine  it.  To  bridge  this  time- 
gap  would  be  difficult.  Also,  in  the  inverted 
order,  the  most  striking  scene  is  reserved  for  the 
end  of  the  story.  A  third  reason  is  the  point  of 
view  adopted.  Balzac  endeavors  to  give  his 
story  plausibility  by  presenting  a  mass  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  concerning  the  methods  by 
which  he  arrived  at  the  story.  He  gets  it  piece- 
meal, and  only  after  considerable  effort.  Not 
only  is  the  reader's  curiosity  whetted  thereby, 
but  he  is  prepared  to  accept  the  story  as  true, 
for  the  order  of  incident  is  in.  accord  with  the 
method  by  which  the  author  learned  the  story. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  point  of  view  and  the 
circumstantial  evidence  make  the  story  consider- 
ably longer  than  it  need  otherwise  be,  and, 
granted  the  ability  of  a  Balzac,  no  more  effect- 
ive, we  must  believe,  than  if  the  time  order  had 
been  followed,  and  the  death-bed  scene  either 
brought  close  to  the  events  preceding  or  omitted 
altogether.  It  is  not  because  of  the  violation 
of  the  time  order,  but  despite  it,  that  La  Grande 
Breteche  is  a  powerful  story. 


114  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Conrad's  story,  The  End  of  the  Tether,  like- 
wise departs  from  the  time  order  so  that  the  in- 
itial incident  may  be  brought  closer  to  the  climax, 
and  the  time  covered  thus  be  reduced.  But 
here  the  gain  is  doubtful.  If  the  reader  desires 
an  instance  in  which  confusion  clearly  follows 
upon  such  a  deviation,  he  may  find  it  in  a  story 
entitled  The  Denver  Express*  by  A.  A.  Hayes. 
Other  instances  less  well  known  may  be  readily 
found. 

We  may  then  generalize  to  this  extent:  The 
writer,  when  tempted  to  depart  from  the  time 
order,  should  make  certain  that  he  has  cogent 
reasons  therefor;  he  should  exhaust  his  technical 
resources  before  he  permits  himself  the  liberty, 
assuring  himself  that  by  no  device  can  he  tell 
his  story  in  chronological  order  with  equal  effect. 
If  he  does  depart  from  it  he  must  be  doubly 
careful  that  the  time  relation  of  events  is  per- 
fectly clear  to  the  reader. 

*  Published  in  a  series  entitled,  "Short  Story  Classics" 
(American),  by  P.  F.  Collier  and  Son. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CHARACTER-DRAWING 

In  a  prefatory  essay  to  an  English  edition  of 
Turgenieff,  Henry  James  relates  the  Russian 
novelist's  practice  of  composing  an  elaborate 
biography  for  each  of  his  story  characters.  Very 
little  of  these  biographies  need  appear  in  the 
story  itself;  their  purpose  was  to  acquaint  the 
author  with  his  own  creations,  so  that,  knowing 
them  intimately,  he  was  enabled  to  set  them  fortli 
in  natural  and  individual  action  when  the  story 
demanded.  Of  Ibsen  much  the  same  is  told. 
He  knew,  it  appears,  more  concerning  his  char- 
acters than  his  plays  revealed;  they  were  to  him 
real  people.  The  advantages  of  so  thorough- 
going a  method  are  apparent.  Characters  fully 
and  clearly  reahzed  by  the  author  are  sure  to  be 
convincing  to  the  reader  if  the  author  is  a  com- 
petent craftsman,  one  able  to  make  his  people 
reveal  themselves.  Yet  these  are,  doubtless,  ex- 
treme instances  of  literary  thoroughness;  the 
majority  of  writers  are  not  so  painstaking.  At 
the  most  they  may  have  imagined  their  creations 


ii6  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

so  vividly  that  they  could  invent  sound  biog- 
raphies at  need.  More  often,  I  fancy,  the  peo- 
ple of  the  story,  nebulously  conceived,  grow  into 
definiteness  as  the  author  writes. 

Characters  should  be  convincing;  that  is,  they 
should  breathe  the  air  of  hfe,  and  be  recogniza- 
ble as  individuals,  however  small  their  part  in 
the  action;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  they  need 
be  elaborately  conceived.  In  many  stories  char- 
acter is  of  quite  minor  importance;  action,  or 
even  the  background  before  which  the  characters 
move,  may  be  chief.  To  Turgenieff  character  rev- 
elation was  usually  the  object  of  the  story,  and 
he  devised  the  action  to  express  the  characters. 
For  many  authors  this  is  not  the  method  nor 
aim.  The  writer  may  wish  to  subordinate  char- 
acter lest  it  intrude  unduly  upon  the  reader's 
interest.  Thus  in  the  story  of  adventure  the 
reader  cares  only  that  the  hero  be  brave  and  re- 
sourceful, and  the  heroine  pretty  and  alluring. 
These  are  the  conventional  pieces  of  the  game. 
Certain  variations  are,  of  course,  possible,  and 
the  clever  writer  contrives  to  trick  out  his  stock 
characters  with  a  semblance  of  freshness.  But 
in  reality  they  are  scarcely  more  than  conven- 
tions, and  the  reader  asks  nothing  more  pro- 
vided the  action  be  sufficiently  absorbing. 

Stevenson  writes  of  Treasure  Island  that  he 
deliberately  made  his  pirates  not  realistic  and 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  1 1 7 

true  persons,  but  pirates  as  a  boy  conceives  the 
breed,  fierce  mustachioed  fellows,  with  wide 
trousers  and  belts  full  of  pistols.  In  Treasure 
Island  character  is  not  the  objective.  Provided 
the  buccaneers  walk  and  fight  with  sufficient 
swagger,  it  is  enough;  the  rest  is  soul-stirring 
adventure.  Less  skilful  writers  think  nothing 
of  checking  the  flow  of  action  to  bore  and  dis- 
concert the  reader  with  analysis  of  motive  or 
with  irrelevant  comment.  Every  reader  will 
recall  stories  in  which  the  author  has  endeavored 
to  do  too  many  things,  to  tell  exciting  incident, 
and  to  analyze  character  as  well.  And  because^ 
the  story  purpose  is  uncertain  the  reader's  in- 
terest is  divided,  and  his  reaction  not  pleasure 
but  a  confused  sense  of  irritation,  the  feeling 
that  something  is  wrong  somewhere.  Character 
should  then  be  subordinated  if  the  story  deals 
mainly  with  action.  If  the  story  is  one  of  ab- 
stract idea  or  is  concerned  mostly  with  setting, 
an  equal  subordination  of  character  is  essential. 
Thus  in  Hawthorne's  short  stories  the  reader 
perceives  often  that  the  characters  are  but  per- 
sonified ideas,  and  their  purpose  nothing  more 
than  the  revelation  of  the  author's  philosophy. 
The  reference  to  Hawthorne  serves  to  open 
up  another  aspect  of  a  complex  problem.  His 
characters,  we  say,  are  often  but  personified 
ideas,  possessed  of  little  vitality  and  uncolored 


ii8  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

with  the  hues  of  life.  By  this  we  mean  merely 
that  the  characters  are  not  untrue,  but  that  they 
have  been  stripped  of  all  but  the  one  or  few 
qualities  essential  to  the  author's  purpose.  The 
.  one  principle,  selection,  here,  as  in  every  division 
i^of  our  subject,  has  again  been  invoked.  For 
consider  the  complexity  of  human  character,  and 
realize  how  little  of  it  an  author  can  set  forth  in 
a  few  pages.  We  applaud  a  novel  which  de- 
lineates one,  or  at  the  most  several,  characters 
with  something  of  the  complexity  we  behold  in 
life.  And  here,  even,  the  resemblance  is  but 
seeming.  In  a  short  narrative  the  problem  is 
yet  more  formidable,  the  selection  more  exacting. 
How,  then,  must  the  writer  select;  what  is 
there  to  guide  him  in  his  difficulty?  He  must 
first  free  his  characters  of  contradictory  quaHties; 
I  they  must  not  be  inconsistent.  Now,  it  is  notori- 
'  ous  that  in  real  fife  people  do  act  with  apparent 
inconsistency.  I  say  apparent,  for,  could  we 
know  them  sufficiently  well,  the  inconsistencies 
might  be  perfectly  explicable.  But  this  knowl- 
edge is  impossible.  A  man  may  in  the  morning 
do  one  thing,  and  in  the  afternoon,  because  of 
some  subtle  influence  of  the  weather  or  his 
digestion,  do  the  exact  opposite.  In  a  story  he 
must  not  so  act  unless  the  contradictory  action 
is  satisfactorily  explained,  and  this  explanation 
is  seldom  possible  by  reason  of  space  limitations. 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  1 19 

The  writer  is  forced  to  make  his  creations  reason- 
able, logical,  and  in  the  main  dependable.  He 
may,  of  course,  draw  an  inconsistent  character, 
but  the  inconsistencies  must  then  be  expected, 
be  in  themselves  reliable.  It  is  not  permissible 
to  draw  a  character  consistent  in  all  things,  and 
then  at  a  crucial  moment  force  that  character  to 
do  the  unexpected.  A  story  in  this  respect 
differs  widely  from  life.  In  life  we  expect  in- 
consistency; in  a  story  we  depend  upon  its 
elimination.  It  is  a  hard  lesson  for  the  young 
writer  to  learn,  for  he  has  his  eye  upon  some  one 
he  knows  who  has  revealed  the  very  contra- 
dictory qualities  which  he  selects.  He  knows 
many  an  instance  of  the  inexplicable.  "This  is 
life,"  says  he;  ''and  should  I  not  write  of  life 
as  I  know  it?"  To  this  there  is  but  the  one 
answer:  a  story  is  art,  and  art  is  not  life  but  a 
rationalized  semblance  of  life.  As  the  story  as 
a  whole  must  be  rational,  logical,  so  must  the 
characters  be  who  constitute  that  story. 

Let  us  assume  that  the  young  writer  has 
grasped  this  distinction  and  has  given  it  a  ten- 
tative acceptance.  What  further  guide  is  there 
to  his  selection  among  the  many  characteristics 
which  human  nature  reveals  to  him?  Here  his 
purpose  in  the  story  is  the  determining  factor 
in  the  selection.  If,  as  we  have  seen,  his  pur- 
pose is  to  tell  a  story  of  action,  his  choice  will  lie 


I20  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

among  the  universal  qualities  of  heroism,  coward- 
ice, deceit,  perseverance,  and  the  like.  If  his 
'^purpose  is  to  bring  out  an  idea,  his  characters 
may  be  stripped  of  all  other  than  the  few  neces- 
sary traits.  Thus,  in  Hawthorne  we  have  a  man 
dominated  by  the  single  purpose  to  remove  from 
his  wife's  beauty  its  one  blot.  The  man  is  not 
human;  in  life  he  would  be  deterred  from  the 
accomplishment  of  his  desire  by  love  and  pity 
and  kindred  affections.  In  the  story  he  must  not 
be  so  complex,  but  must  proceed  unswervingly 
as  though  possessed  of  the  one  idea.  Again,  in 
Poe's  The  Cask  of  Amontillado  the  chief  charac- 
ter is  but  a  personified  quahty,  the  desire  for 
revenge.  Were  he  too  complex,  the  story  could 
not  move  with  its  swift  certainty  to  the  goal 
sought. 

We  may  well  ask  how  far  this  simplification 
through  selection  may  be  carried.  In  certain 
old-fashioned  moral  tales  the  characters  are  but 
personified  virtues  and  vices,  abstractions  merely. 
These,  it  will  be  objected,  are  uninteresting  and 
untrue  to  life.  In  Pilgrim's  Progress  we  feel 
that  Christian  and  Greatheart  and  Mr.  Worldly 
Wiseman  bear  but  a  faint  semblance  to  real 
people.  And  they  are  uninteresting  by  reason 
of  this  remoteness.  In  Hawthorne,  too,  we  ask 
for  more  truth  to  reality  than  the  author  grants 
us.    The  objection  is  reasonable.     The  check 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  121 

is  always  life.  If  the  simplified  character  is  too 
far  removed  from  reaUty  it  fails  of  its  intended 
illusory  effect,  for,  though  the  story  is  not  life,  it 
must  resemble  life.  The  more  universal  the 
quality  or  qualities  selected,  the  greater  the 
chance  of  the  reader's  acceptance  of  them.  He 
will  from  his  own  imagination  supply  the  minor 
characteristics  necessary.  If  the  quality  is  un- 
usual for  one  so  dominant,  the  greater  the  need 
of  humanizing  it  by  the  addition  of  one  or  more 
simple  characteristics  less  exceptional.  The  aim 
of  the  story  and  the  writer's  grasp  of  life  must 
both  aid  in  determining  the  character  selection. 

If  character  be  the  aim  of  the  story,  the  writer 
may  be  as  complex  as  space  will  permit.  In  a 
novel  the  complexity  may,  therefore,  be  much 
greater  than  in  a  short  narrative.  But  the  prin- 
ciple of  selection,  though  less  exacting,  is  none 
the  less  active,  and  the  writer  is  well  prompted 
if  he  limits  his  characters  rather  more  than  at 
first  thought  he  deems  necessary.  By  so  doing 
he  will  gain  both  in  intensity  and  contrast.  If 
the  analysis  is  too  minute,  the  qualities  too  va- 
ried, the  reader  may  easily  become  lost  in  a  maze 
and  fail  to  appreciate  at  its  proper  value  the 
particular  psychological  knot  it  is  the  writer's 
purpose  to  untangle. 

It  is  for  this  reason — the  necessity  of  character 
appearing  logical  and  representative,  and  yet 


122  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

not  overcomplex — that  the  writer  is  well  in- 
spired if  he  conceives  his  characters  imagina- 
tively rather  than  attempts  to  draw  them  directly 
from  human  originals.  Much  of  the  weakness 
of  realistic  fiction  is,  I  am  convinced,  due  to  the 
failure  of  writers  to  create  characters  imagina- 
tively. Rather  do  they  attempt  to  set  down, 
unmodified,  persons  they  have  seen  and  known. 
The  complexities  and  inconsistencies  of  these 
real  people  stand  in  the  way  of  a  compelling 
picture,  and  the  result  is  a  lack  of  convincing- 
ness. 

To  what,  then,  may  the  writer  turn?  To  his 
knowledge  of  life  first  of  all,  which  is  derived 
from  two  sources,  observation  of  others  and  of 
himself.  He  should  be  introspective,  knowing 
the  springs  of  his  own  conduct.  Proceeding, 
then,  on  the  assumption  that  all  people  are,  po- 
tentially, much  alike,  he  interprets  the  actions 
of  others,  supplying  motives  from  his  own  self- 
knowledge.  Though  he  bases  his  ge^eraHza- 
tion  upon  Kfe  and  observes  as  widely  and  as 
sympathetically  as  he  can,  this  is  his  method 
of  work  throughout. 

A  knowledge  of  Hfe  based  upon  observation 
and  interpreted  in  the  Hght  of  self-analysis  is, 
then,  the  stuff  from  which  the  writer  moulds 
his  imaginary  characters.  Thus  conceived  they 
are  plastic,  subservient  to  his  purpose,  and  con- 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  1 23 

sistent  with  the  story  he  has  to  tell.  Nor  is 
there  any  lack  of  range  in  this  method.  A  man 
in  the  sum  of  his  attributes  represents  all  pos- 
sible types.  It  is  true  that  in  his  neighbor  the 
qualities  in  their  proportions  and  emphasis 
differ  from  his  own;  yet  he  imderstands  his 
ineighbor  as  he  sees  imaginatively  the  difference 
in  himself,  were  certain  of  his  dominant  char- 
acteristics suppressed  and  others  emphasized. 
Though  the  elements  are  the  same  in  all,  the 
various  combinations  are  almost  infinite,  as 
from  oxygen,  nitrogen,  and  carbon,  in  varying 
proportions,  is  formed  a  vast  series  of  com- 
pounds individual  and  distinct. 

A  writer  cannot  get  away  from  himself  and 
his  view  of  the  world.  Doubtless  the  world 
isn't  really  what  he  imagines  it  to  be.  It  is 
something  more,  the  sum  of  all  differences,  all 
personalities,  all  points  of  view — these  appre- 
hended by  no  single  man.  The  writer  must, 
perforce,  work  with  what  he  knows,  striving 
always  to  increase  the  range  of  his  understand- 
ing by  a  cultivation  of  insight  through  the  im- 
agination. What  he  discovers  he  may  set  forth 
in  his  imagined  creations,  which,  if  he  is  sane  and 
wholesome  and  broad-minded,  will  be  sufficiently 
true  to  what  others  regard  as  typical  of  life  to 
arouse  interest  and  pleasure.  It  will  be  profit- 
less to  discuss  the  matter  at  greater  length.    An 


124  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

appreciation  of  the  justness  of  this  point  of  view 
will  come  readily  to  some;  others  will  arrive  at 
it,  if  ever,  only  by  practice  in  story  writing,  by 
experiencing  the  difficulty  of  character  creation 
by  any  other  method. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  more  technical  aspects  of 
our  problem,  the  means  by  which  characters 
imaginatively  and  artistically  conceived  for  the 
purposes  of  the  story  may  most  effectively  be 
portrayed.  The  means  are:  analysis,  a  record 
of  the  effects  of  character  upon  the  other  per- 
sons of  the  story,  action,  speech,  and  personal 
description.  We  must  consider  these  separately 
and  in  order. 

Analysis  may  be  of  two  sorts,  that  in  the  per- 
son of  the  author,  and  that  of  the  characters  by 
themselves;  this  last,  for  the  most  part,  in  stories 
written  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  actor- 
narrator.  Of  the  first  the  illustrations  are  end- 
less. Any  good  short  story  written  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  author-omniscient  will  con- 
tain passages  of  analysis.  The  following  is 
from  Turgenieff's  story  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes, 
a  longish  tale,  to  be  sure,  and  of  a  leisurely 
method: 

And  yet  even  this  self-confident  unflinching 
giant  had  his  moments  of  melancholy  and  de- 
pression. Without  any  visible  cause  he  would 
suddenly  begin  to  be  sad;   he  would  lock  him- 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  125 

self  up  alone  in  his  room,  and  hum — positively 
hum — like  a  whole  hive  of  bees;  or  he  would 
call  his  page  Maximka,  and  tell  him  to  read  aloud 
to  him  out  of  the  solitary  book  which  had  some- 
how found  its  way  into  his  house,  an  odd  copy 
of  Novikovsky's,  The  Worker  at  Leisure,  or  else 
to  sing  to  him.  And  Maximka,  who  by  some 
strange  freak  of  chance  could  spell  out  print, 
syllable  by  syllable,  would  set  to  work  with  the 
usual  chopping  up  of  the  words  and  transference 
of  the  accent,  bawling  out  phrases  of  the  follow- 
ing description:  ''But  man  in  his  wilfulness 
draws  from  this  empty  h3^othesis,  which  he 
applies  to  the  animal  kingdom,  utterly  opposite 
conclusions.  Every  animal  separately,"  he  says, 
"is  not  capable  of  making  me  happy!"  and  so 
on.  Or  he  would  chant  in  a  shrill  little  voice  a 
mournful  song,  of  which  nothing  could  be  dis- 
tinguished  but:    ''Ee eee  .  .  .  ee  .  .  .  a  .  . . 

ee  .  .  .  a  .  .  .  ee  .  .  .  Aaa  .  .  .  ska !  O  ...  00  ...  00 
.  .  .  bee  .  .  .  ee  .  .  .  ee  .  .  .  ee  .  .  .  la!"  While  Mar- 
tin Petrovitch  would  shake  his  head,  make  allu- 
sions to  the  mutabiHty  of  hfe,  how  all  things 
turn  to  ashes,  fade  away  like  grass,  pass — and 
will  return  no  more!  A  picture  had  somehow 
come  into  his  hands,  representing  a  burning  can- 
dle, which  the  winds,  with  puffed-out  cheeks, 
were  blowing  upon  from  all  sides;  below  was 
the  inscription:  "Such  is  the  life  of  man."  He 
was  very  fond  of  this  picture;  he  had  hung  it 
up  in  his  own  room,  but  at  ordinary,  not  melan- 
choly, times  he  used  to  keep  it  turned  face  to  the 
wall,  so  that  it  might  not  depress  him.  Harlov, 
that  colossus,  was  afraid  of  death!    To  the  con- 


126  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

solations  of  religion,  to  prayer,  however,  he 
rarely  had  recourse  in  his  fits  of  melancholy. 
Even  then  he  chiefly  reHed  on  his  own  intelli- 
gence. He  had  no  particular  reUgious  feeling; 
he  was  not  often  seen  in  church;  he  used  to  say, 
it  is  true,  that  he  did  not  go  on  the  ground  that, 
owing  to  his  corporeal  dimensions,  he  was  afraid 
of  squeezing  other  people  out.  The  fit  of  de- 
pression commonly  ended  in  Martin  Petro- 
vitch's  beginning  to  whistle,  and  suddenly,  in  a 
voice  of  thunder,  ordering  out  his  droshky,  and 
dashing  off  about  the  neighborhood,  vigorously 
brandishing  his  disengaged  hand  over  the  peak 
of  his  cap,  as  though  he  would  say,  '^For  all 
that  I  don't  care  a  straw!"  He  was  a  regular 
Russian. 

The  method  is  simple — a  generalization  or 
two  based  upon  the  author's  knowledge  of  the 
character,  and  typical  illustrations  of  the  traits 
so  given. 

The  introductory  paragraph  of  Stevenson's 
Story  of  the  Physician  and  the  Saratoga  Trunk 
will  serve  as  an  example  of  a  generahzed  char- 
acterization more  tersely  done.  The  character 
is,  of  course,  revealed  somewhat  further  as  the 
story  progresses,  but  as  it  is  a  story  of  action, 
character  at  no  time  plays  a  very  important  part: 

Mr.  Silas  Q.  Scuddamore  was  a  yoimg  Ameri- 
can of  a  simple  and  harmless  disposition,  which 
was  the  more  to  his  credit  as  he  came  from  New 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  127 

England— a  quarter  of  the  New  World  not  pre- 
cisely famous  for  those  qualities.  Although  he 
was  exceedingly  rich,  he  kept  a  note  of  all  his 
expenses  in  a  little  paper  pocket-book;  and  he 
had  chosen  to  study  the  attractions  of  Paris 
from  the  seventh  story  of  what  is  called  a  fur- 
nished hotel,  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  There  was 
a  great  deal  of  habit  in  his  penuriousness;  and 
his  virtue,  which  was  very  remarkable  among 
his  associates,  was  principally  founded  upon 
diffidence  and  youth. 

Characterization  by  a  running  analysis  of 
thought  and  motive  can  be  illustrated  from 
almost  any  story  in  the  analytical  manner.  The 
method  is  a  variant  upon  the  summarized  or 
generalized  analysis,  and  the  examples  of  it 
are  necessarily  briefer,  coming,  as  they  do,  in 
the  thick  of  action.  Maupassant's  Coward  will 
afford  a  suitable  selection: 

He  commenced  to  argue  with  himself  concern- 
ing the  possibility  of  this  thing. 

''Am  I  afraid?" 

No,  of  course  he  was  not  afraid,  as  he  had  de- 
termined to  carry  the  thing  through,  as  his 
mind  was  fully  made  up  to  fight,  and  not  to 
tremble.  But  he  felt  so  profoundly  troubled 
that  he  asked  himself  the  question: 

*'Is  it  possible  to  be  afraid  in  spite  of  one's 
self?" 

And  that  doubt,  that  disquietude,  that  dread 
took  possession  of  him;   if  some  force  stronger 


128  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

than  his  will,  a  dominating,  irresistible  power 
should  conquer  him,  what  would  happen?  Yes, 
what  would  happen?  He  certainly  would  go 
to  the  ground,  inasmuch  as  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  there.  But  suppose  his  hand  should 
tremble?  Suppose  he  should  faint?  And  he 
thought  of  his  position,  of  his  reputation,  of 
his  name. 

And  suddenly  a  strange  fancy  seized  him  to 
get  up,  in  order  to  look  in  the  mirror.  He  reHt 
his  candle.  When  he  saw  the  reflection  of  his 
face  in  the  poHshed  glass,  he  could  hardly  recog- 
nize himself,  and  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  never 
seen  this  man  before.  His  eyes  appeared  enor- 
mous; and  he  certainly  was  pale — yes,  very  pale. 

He  remained  standing  in  front  of  the  mirror. 
He  put  out  his  tongue  as  if  to  test  the  state  of 
his  health,  and  of  a  sudden  this  thought  burst 
into  his  mind  like  a  bullet: 

''The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  I 
may  be  dead." 

And  his  heart  began  to  beat  furiously  again. 

Of  yet  briefer  bits  of  such  characterization,  a 
chance  passage  will  suffice: 

...  He  opened  the  door  and  went  down- 
stairs very  slowly,  thinking  to  himself.  His 
past  went  soberly  before  him;  he  beheld  it  as 
it  was,  ugly  and  strenuous  like  a  dream,  random 
as  chance-medley — a  scene  of  defeat.  Life  as 
he  thus  reviewed  it,  tempted  him  no  longer; 
but  on  the  further  side  he  perceived  a  quiet 
haven  for  his  bark.  .  .  . — {Markheim.) 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  129 

For  the  actor-narrator's  analysis  both  of  him- 
self and  a  second  character  of  the  story; 

I  first  caught  sight  of  my  uncle  when  we  were 
still  some  yards  away  in  one  of  the  flying  glimpses 
of  twilight  that  chequered  the  pitch  darkness  of 
the  night.  He  was  standing  up  behind  the  para- 
pet, his  head  thrown  back  and  the  bottle  to  his 
mouth.  As  he  put  it  down,  he  saw  and  recog- 
nized us  with  a  toss  of  one  hand  fleeringly  above 
his  head. 

"Has  he  been  drinking?"  shouted  I  to  Rorie. 

"He  will  aye  be  drunk  when  the  wind  blaws," 
returned  Rorie  in  the  same  high  key,  and  it  was 
all  I  could  do  to  hear  him. 

"Then — was  he  so — in  February? "  I  enquired. 

Rorie's  "Ay"  was  a  cause  of  joy  to  me.  The 
murder,  then,  had  not  sprung  in  cold  blood  from 
calculation;  it  was  an  act  of  madness  no  more 
to  be  condemned  than  to  be  pardoned.  My 
uncle  was  a  dangerous  madman,  if  you  will, 
but  he  was  not  cruel  and  base  as  I  had  feared. 
Yet  what  a  scene  for  a  carouse,  what  an  incredi- 
ble vice,  was  this  that  the  poor  man  had  chosen ! 
I  have  always  thought  drunkenness  a  wild  and 
almost  fearful  pleasure,  rather  demoniacal  than 
human;  but  drunkenness,  out  here  in  the  roar- 
ing blackness,  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff  above  that 
hell  of  waters,  the  man's  head  spinning  Hke  the 
Roost,  his  foot  tottering  on  the  edge  of  death, 
his  ear  watching  for  the  signs  of  shipwreck, 
surely  that,  if  it  were  credible  in  any  one,  was 
morally  impossible  in  a  man  like  my  uncle, 
whose  mind  was  set  upon  a  damnatory  creed  and 


I30  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

haunted  by  the  darkest  superstitions.  Yet  so 
it  was;  and  as  we  reached  the  bight  of  shelter 
and  could  breathe  again,  I  saw  the  man's  eyes 
shining  in  the  night  with  an  unholy  glimmer. 
— {The  Merry  Men) 

Perhaps  no  further  illustrations  of  the  method 
are  necessary,  for  it  is  sufficiently  obvious  in 
principle.  Self-revelation  at  its  profoundest  is 
to  be  foimd  in  the  soliloquies  of  Hamlet,  Other 
of  Shakespeare's  plays  will  afford  as  well  in- 
numerable illustrations  of  character  as  revealed 
in  its  ejBFect  upon  others.  Thus  lago  declares 
his  plan  of  ruining  Othello  by  playing  upon  the 
noble  qualities  which  he  perceives  in  the  Moor. 
In  a  story  similar  methods  are  employed. 

But  the  devices  of  analysis,  important  as 
these  may  be,  are  less  useful  than  action  as  a 
means  of  character  revelation.  Whatever  the 
author  may  say  of  his  creatures  or  they  of  them- 
selves, it  is  by  their  deeds  that  we  judge  them. 
Action  we  beheve  to  be  the  most  genuine  expres- 
sion of  character,  particularly  action  in  response 
to  feeling  and  passion;  action,  that  is,  truly 
characteristic  of  the  man's  inner  self,  and  not 
calculated  for  effect.  Thus,  a  man  is  revealed  at 
crucial  moments,  when  superficial  mannerisms 
are  in  abeyance,  the  conventional  and  acquired 
qualities  laid  aside.  It  is  in  the  selection  of 
appropriate  action  by  which  to  reveal  his  crea- 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  131 

tions  truly  in  moments  of  stress  that  the  writer 
must  exercise  his  greatest  care.  In  trivial  acts 
one  man  may  differ  Httle  from  another.  On  the 
scaffold,  or  in  the  moment  of  temptation  or 
passion,  they  reveal  their  basic  differences. 

If  the  author  has  permitted  himself  analysis, 
he  must,  in  his  choice  of  action,  see  to  it  that  his 
characters  live  up  to  the  roles  assigned  them. 
If  he  has  described  the  hero  as  an  admirable 
character,  the  hero's  actions  must  be  admirable 
in  our  eyes;  if  not,  the  story  is  at  cross  purposes, 
and  serves  merely  to  illustrate  the  moral  un- 
certainty of  the  author.  We  are  not  unac- 
quainted with  the  type  of  story  in  which  the 
author,  to  make  a  point  he  deems  necessary  to 
the  development  of  his  plot,  forces  a  character 
to  an  inconsistency  to  achieve  that  end. 

Yet  it  is  not  always  the  emotional  crises  which 
serve  alone  to  reveal  true  character,  important 
as  these  are,  and  vital  as  is  the  obligation  that 
in  them  the  characters  act  fully  to  the  parts  as- 
signed them.  Character-building  skilfully  con- 
trived is  no  sudden  revelation  of  unsuspected 
traits,  but  a  slow  process  of  consistent  growth. 
The  method  is  strictly  analogous  to  that  of  ex- 
position and  preparation.  Just  as  every  ind-  \ 
dent  is  significant  doubly  for  what  it  is,  and  for 
what  it  prepares,  so  every  action  of  the  skilfully 
drawn  character  should  serve  to  build  for  a  crisis 


\ 


132  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

in  which  deeper  revelations,  but  these  consistent 
with  and  anticipated  from  the  previous  acts, 
may  be  effectively  and  convincingly  set  forth. 
The  careful  writer  secures  his  effects  subtly, 
prejudicing  the  reader  for  or  against  this  person 
or  that,  predicting  unmistakably,  though  not  too 
obviously,  the  roles  each  must  assume.  It  is 
difficult  to  cite  brief  instances,  for  the  process 
is  coterminous  with  the  story,  and  the  effect  is 
of  a  whole  sufficiently  robust  though  built  of 
parts  individually  slight.  I  shall  quote  a  passage, 
italicizing  a  few  instances  by  which  the  character 
of  Markheim,  in  Stevenson's  story  of  the  name, 
is  revealed  to  us.  The  analysis  could  be  carried 
further,  but  we  must  content  ourselves  here 
with  the  first  touches  by  which  we  are  prepared 
for  the  murder: 

"Yes,"  said  the  dealer,  "our  windfalls  are  of 
various  kinds.  Some  customers  are  ignorant, 
and  then  I  touch  a  dividend  on  my  superior 
knowledge.  Some  are  dishonest,''^  and  here  he 
held  up  his  candle,  so  that  the  light  Jell  strongly  on 
his  visitor,  "and  in  that  case,"  he  continued,  "I 
profit  by  my  virtue." 

Markheim  had  but  just  entered  from  the  day- 
light streets,  and  his  eyes  had  not  yet  grown 
familiar  with  the  mingled  shine  and  darkness  of 
the  shop.  At  these  pointed  words,  and  before 
the  near  presence  of  the  flame,  he  blinked  pain- 
fully and  looked  aside. 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  133 

The  dealer  chuckled.  "You  come  to  me  on 
Christmas  day,"  he  resumed,  "when  you  know 
that  I  am  alone  in  my  house,  put  up  my  shutters, 
and  make  a  point  of  refusing  business.  Well, 
you  will  have  to  pay  for  that;  you  will  have  to 
pay  for  my  loss  of  time,  when  I  should  be  balanc- 
ing my  books;  you  will  have  to  pay,  besides,  for 
a  kind  of  manner  that  I  remark  in  you  today 
very  strongly.  I  am  the  essence  of  discretion, 
and  I  ask  no  awkward  questions;  but  when  a 
customer  cannot  look  me  in  the  eye,  he  has  to  pay 
for  it.'*  The  dealer  once  more  chuckled;  and 
then  changing  to  his  usual  business  voice, 
though  still  with  a  note  of  irony,  "  You  can  give, 
as  usual,  a  clear  account  of  how  you  cam^  into  the 
possession  of  the  object?^'  he  continued.  "Still 
your  uncle's  cabinet?  A  remarkable  collector, 
sir!" 

And  the  little  pale,  roimd-shouldered  dealer 
stood  almost  on  tiptoe,  looking  over  the  top  of 
his  gold  spectacles,  and  nodding  his  head  with 
every  mark  of  disbelief.  Markheim  returned  his 
gaze  with  one  of  infinite  pity,  and  a  touch  of 
horror. 

"This  time,"  said  he,  "you  are  in  error.  I 
have  not  come  to  sell,  but  to  buy.  I  have  no 
curios  to  dispose  of;  my  uncle's  cabinet  is  bare 
to  the  wainscot;  even  were  it  still  intact,  I  have 
done  well  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  should 
more  likely  add  to  it  than  otherwise,  and  my 
errand  today  is  simplicity  itself.  I  seek  a 
Christmas  present  for  a  lady,"  he  continued, 
waxing  more  fluent  as  he  struck  into  the  speech  he 
had  prep  Sired;   ''and  certainly  I  owe  you  every 


134  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

excuse  for  thus  disturbing  you  upon  so  small  a 
matter.  But  the  thing  was  neglected  yesterday; 
I  must  produce  my  little  compliment  at  dinner; 
and,  as  you  very  well  know,  a  rich  marriage  is 
not  a  thing  to  be  neglected." 

There  followed  a  pause,  during  which  the 
dealer  seemed  to  weigh  this  statement  incredulously. 
The  ticking  of  many  clocks  among  the  curious 
lumber  of  the  shop,  and  the  faint  rushing  of  the 
cabs  in  a  near  thoroughfare,  filled  up  the  inter- 
val of  silence. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  dealer,  "be  it  so.  You 
are  an  old  customer  after  all;  and  if,  as  you  say, 
you  have  the  chance  of  a  good  marriage,  far  be 
it  from  me  to  be  an  obstacle.  Here  is  a  nice 
thing  for  a  lady  now,"  he  went  on,  "this  hand- 
glass— fifteenth  century,  warranted ;  comes  from 
a  good  collection,  too;  but  I  reserve  the  name, 
in  the  interests  of  my  customer,  who  was,  just 
like  yourself,  my  dear  sir,  the  nephew  and  sole 
heir  of  a  remarkable  collector." 

The  dealer,  while  he  thus  ran  on  in  his  dry 
and  biting  voice,  had  stooped  to  take  the  object 
from  its  place;  and  as  he  had  done  so,  a  shock 
had  passed  through  Markheim,  a  start  both  of 
hand  and  foot,  a  sudden  leap  of  many  tumultuous 
passiofis  to  the  face.  It  passed  as  swiftly  as  it 
came,  and  left  no  trace  beyond  a  certain  trem- 
bling of  the  hand  that  now  received  the  glass. 

"A  glass,"  he  said  hoarsely,  and  then  paused 
and  repeated  it  more  clearly.  "A  glass?  For 
Christmas?     Surely  not?" 

"And  why  not? "  cried  the  dealer.  "  Why  not 
a  glass?" 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  135 

Markheim  was  looking  upon  him  with  an  in- 
definable expression.  ''You  ask  me  why  not?" 
he  said.  "Why,  look  here — look  in  it — look  at 
yourself!  Do  you  like  to  see  it?  No!  nor  I — 
nor  any  man." 

The  little  man  had  jumped  back  when  Mark- 
heim had  so  suddenly  confronted  him  with  the 
mirror;  but  now,  perceiving  there  was  nothing 
worse  on  hand,  he  chuckled.  "Your  future 
lady,  sir,  must  be  pretty  hard  favored,"  said  he. 

"I  ask  you,"  said  Markheim,  "for  a  Christmas 
present,  and  you  give  me  this  damned  reminder 
of  years,  and  sins  and  follies — this  hand-conscience! 
Did  you  mean  it?  Had  you  a  thought  in  your 
mind?  Tell  me.  //  will  he  better  for  you  if  you 
do.  Come,  tell  me  about  yourself.  /  hazard  a 
guess  now,  that  in  secret  you  are  a  very  charitable 
man?" 

The  dealer  looked  closely  at  his  companion. 
It  was  very  odd,  Markheim  did  not  appear  to 
be  laughing;  there  was  something  in  his  face  like 
an  eager  sparkle  of  hope,  but  nothing  of  mirth. 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  the  dealer  asked. 

^^Not  charitable?"  returned  the  other  gloomily. 
*^Not  charitable;  not  pious;  not  scrupulous;  un- 
loving, unbeloved;  a  hand  to  get  money,  a  safe 
to  keep  it.  Is  that  all?  Dear  God,  man,  is 
that  all?" 

"I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,"  began  the  dealer, 
with  some  sharpness  and  then  broke  off  again 
into  a  chuckle.  "But  I  see  this  is  a  love-match 
of  yours,  and  you  have  been  drinking  the  lady's 
health." 

"Ah!"  cried  Markheim,  with  a  strange  curi- 


136  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

osity.  "Ah,  have  you  been  in  love?  Tell  me 
about  that." 

''I!"  cried  the  dealer.  "I  in  love!  I  never 
had  the  time,  nor  have  I  the  time  today  for  all 
this  nonsense.     Will  you  take  the  glass?" 

"Where  is  the  hurry?"  returned  Markheim. 
"It  is  very  pleasant  to  stand  here  talking;  and 
life  is  so  short  and  insecure  that  I  would  not 
hurry  away  from  any  pleasure — no  not  even  from 
so  mild  a  one  as  this.  We  should  rather  ding, 
cling  to  what  httle  we  can  get,  like  a  man  at  a 
cliff's  edge.  Every  second  is  a  cliff,  if  you  think 
upon  it — a  cliff  a  mile  high — high  enough  if  we 
fall,  to  dash  us  out  of  every  feature  of  humanity. 
Hence  it  is  best  to  talk  pleasantly.  Let  us  talk  of 
each  other;  why  should  we  wear  this  mask?  Let 
us  be  confidential.  Who  knows,  we  might  become 
friends?'' 

"I  have  just  one  word  to  say  to  you,"  said 
the  dealer.  "Either  make  your  purchase  or 
walk  out  of  my  shop." 

"True,  true,"  said  Markheim.  "Enough 
fooling.  To  business.  Show  me  something 
else." 

The  dealer  stooped  once  more,  this  time  to 
replace  the  glass  upon  the  shelf,  his  thin  blond 
hair  falKng  over  his  eyes  as  he  did  so.  Markheim 
moved  a  httle  nearer,  with  one  hand  in  the  pocket 
of  his  great  coat;  he  drew  himself  up  and  filled 
his  lungs;  at  the  same  time  ma^iy  different  emo- 
tions were  depicted  together  upon  his  face — terror, 
horror,  and  resolve,  fascination  and  a  physical 
repulsion;  and  through  a  haggard  lift  of  his  upper 
Up  J  his  teeth  looked  out. 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  137 

"This,  perhaps,  may  suit,"  observed  the 
dealer;  and  then,  as  he  began  to  rearise,  Mark- 
heim  bounded  from  behind  upon  his  victim. 
The  long,  skewer-like  dagger  flashed  and  fell. 
The  dealer  struggled  like  a  hen,  striking  his 
temple  on  the  shelf,  and  then  tumbled  on  the 
floor  in  a  heap. 

That  Markheim  is  a  rogue  who  has  disposed 
of  stolen  articles  to  the  dealer  is  sufficiently  ob- 
vious. The  dealer's  remark  that  his  visitor's 
manner  is  odd  arouses  our  attention.  When 
Markheim  gazes  upon  the  dealer  with  pity  and 
horror,  our  interest  becomes  keen.  This  display 
of  emotion  is  an  odd  revelation  in  a  rascal. 
Then,  in  the  next  speech,  we  are  aware  that 
Markheim  is  lying;  the  dealer,  too,  is  aware  of 
this.  Again,  when  the  dealer  stoops  to  find  the 
glass,  the  mention  of  tumultuous  passions  in  the 
face  of  the  purchaser  puzzles  us.  We  know,  at 
least,  that  the  man  is  wrought  to  a  high  pitch 
of  excitement;  an  excitement  which  he  dare  not 
reveal,  and  which,  therefore,  is  evil.  The  eager- 
ness with  which  he  seeks  to  discover  good  traits 
in  the  dealer  is  again  significant.  He  seems  de- 
sirous of  being  friends  with  him,  and  soon  we 
know  why.  He  is  driven  to  a  deed  which  he 
loathes,  and  at  the  last  moment,  were  there  a 
loophole,  he  would  withdraw.  The  mirror  is 
an  excellent  device;  Markheim's  terror  of  it  and 


i 


138  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

his  words  show  again  the  man  who  fears  what 
he  is  and  soon  will  become.  The  character  of 
Markheim  grows  clear  before  our  eyes,  and  we 
anticipate  his  crime,  for  character  and  action 
are  here  inseparable,  the  revelations  of  emotion 
serving  to  predict  incident. 

But  have  we  not  departed  somewhat  from  our 
theme:  significant  action  as  a  means  of  slow 
character  creation?  Markheim's  words  are  more 
significant  than  his  acts.  Again  he  moves  the 
dealer,  in  whose  suspicions  we  see  reflected  the 
image  of  Markheim  himself.  And,  last,  we  have 
brief  descriptive  touches  of  the  man's  appear- 
ance, which  suggest  the  passions  within.  Of 
analysis  there  is  scarcely  a  trace;  the  method 
is  almost  purely  objective  to  the  point  of  the 
murder.  That  all  these  means  should  serve  the 
writer  in  the  creation  of  his  character  is  signifi- 
cant. The  resort  to  many  devices  gives  variety, 
and  the  skilful  story-teller  uses,  therefore,  as 
many  as  he  can:  analysis,  action,  speech,  effect 
upon  others,  and  description — all  may  be  illus- 
trated in  a  single  good  passage,  and  so  inter- 
related that  they  cannot  be  separated  one  from 
another.  Doubtless  we  could  find  passages  in 
which  one  or  another  sufficed  of  itself  for  a  time, 
but  in  the  best  character  drawing  we  shall  find 
not  one  but  several  means  employed.  A  further 
selection   will   admirably   reinforce    the    point. 


CHARACTERyDRAWING  139 

This  is  from   Turgenieff's    Tatydna  Borisovna 
and  Her  Nephew: 

At  first,  Tatyana  Borisovna  did  not  recognise 
him.  From  his  letters  she  had  expected  a  thin 
and  sickly  man,  but  she  beheld  a  broad-shoul- 
dered, stout  young  fellow,  with  a  broad  red  face, 
and  curly,  greasy  hair.  The  pale,  slender  An- 
driusha  had  been  converted  into  sturdy  Andrei 
Ivanoff  Byelovzoroff.  His  external  appearance 
was  not  the  only  thing  in  him  which  had  under- 
gone a  change.  The  sensitive  shyness,  the 
caution  and  neatness  of  former  years,  had  been 
replaced  by  a  careless  swagger,  by  intolerable 
slovenliness;  he  swayed  to  right  and  left  as  he 
walked,  flung  himself  into  armchairs,  sprawled 
over  the  table,  lolled,  yawned  to  the  full  extent 
of  his  jaws,  and  behaved  impudently  to  his  aunt 
and  the  servants, — as  much  as  to  say,  *'I'm  an 
artist,  a  free  kazak!  I'll  show  you  what  stuff 
I'm  made  of!"  For  whole  days  together,  he 
would  not  take  brush  in  his  hand;  when  the  so- 
called  inspiration  came  upon  him,  he  would  be- 
have as  wildly  as  though  he  were  intoxicated, 
painfully,  awkwardly,  noisily;  his  cheeks  would 
burn  with  a  coarse  flush,  his  eyes  would  grow 
inebriated;  he  would  set  to  prating  about  his 
talent,  his  successes,  of  how  he  was  developing 
and  advancing.  ...  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  turned  out  that  his  gift  barely  sufficed  for 
tolerably  fair  petty  portraits.  He  was  an  utter 
ignoramus,  he  had  read  nothing;  and  why  should 
an  artist  read?  Nature,  freedom,  poetry, — 
those  are  his  elements.     So,  shake  thy  curls, 


I40  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

and  chatter  away  volubly,  and  inhale  Zhuk6ff 
with  frenzy!  Russian  swagger  is  a  good  thing, 
but  it  is  not  becoming  to  many;  and  talentless 
second-rate  Polezhaeffs  are  intolerable.  Our 
Andrei  Ivanitch  continued  to  live  at  his  aunt's: 
evidently  gratuitous  food  was  to  his  taste.  He 
inspired  visitors  with  deadly  ennui.  He  would 
seat  himself  at  the  piano  (Tatyana  Borisovna 
had  set  up  a  piano  also)  and  begin  to  pick  out 
with  one  finger  ''The  Dashing  Troika";  he 
would  strike  chords  and  thump  the  keys;  for 
hours  at  a  stretch  he  would  howl  Varlamoff's 
romances  "The  Solitary  Pine,"  or  "No,  Doctor, 
no,  do  not  come,"  and  the  fat  would  close  over 
his  eyes,  and  his  cheeks  would  shine  like  a  drum. 
.  .  .  And  then,  suddenly,  he  would  thunder: 
"Begone,  ye  tumults  of  passion!"  .  .  .  And  Ta- 
tyana Borisovna  would  fairly  jump  in  dismay. 

"'Tis  extraordinary," — she  remarked  to  me 
one  day, — "what  songs  are  composed  nowadays, 
— they  are  all  so  despairing,  somehow;  in  my  day, 
they  used  to  compose  a  different  sort:  there  were 
sad  ones  then  too,  but  it  was  always  agreeable 
to  listen  to  them.  .  .  .  For  example: 

"Come,  come  to  me  in  the  meadow. 
Where  I  wait  for  thee  in  vain; 
Come,  come  to  me  in  the  meadow. 
Where  my  tears  flow  hour  after  hour.  .  .  . 
Alas,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  in  the  meadow, 
But  then  't  will  be  too  late,  dear  friend!" 

Tatyana  Borisovna  smiled  guilefully. 
"I  shall  suf-fer,  I  shall  suf-fer,"  howled  her 
nephew  in  the  adjoining  room. 


CHARACTER-DRAWING  141 

"Stop  that,  Andriusha!" 

"My  soul  is  lan-guishing  in  part-ing,"  con- 
tinued the  irrepressible  singer. 

Tatyana  Borisovna  shook  her  head. 

"Okh,  those  artists!"  .  .  . 

A  year  has  passed  since  then.  Byelovzoroff  is 
still  living  with  his  aunt,  and  still  preparing  to 
go  to  Petersburg.  He  has  become  broader  than 
he  is  long  in  the  country.  His  aunt — who 
would  have  thought  it? — is  perfectly  devoted  to 
him,  and  the  young  girls  of  the  neighborhood 
fall  in  love  with  him.  .  .  . 

Many  of  Tatyana  Borisovna's  former  acquaint- 
ances have  ceased  to  visit  her. 

In  this  admirable  selection  description  is  re- 
inforced with  characteristic  action  and  speech, 
and  the  result  is  a  speaking  likeness. 

The  methods  of  characterization  are  suffi- 
ciently obvious  to  require  no  further  illustra- 
tion. They  are  not  to  be  divorced  from  exposi- 
tion and  preparation,  for  they  serve  with  these 
the  story's  purposes,  which  involve  not  character 
portrayal  only  but  action  as  well.  They  de- 
mand, also,  description.  But  as  description  is 
a  matter  which  requires  separate  consideration, 
this  will  be  taken  up  in  another  chapter.  Dia- 
logue, too,  is  involved;  but  this,  again,  requires 
separate  analysis.  Let  us  note,  however,  that 
though  for  purposes  of  inteUigibility  these  ele- 
ments are  considered  as  separate  problems  of 


14?  ART  OF  THE  SHOk  f  STORY 

story-construction,  they  are  found  usually  not  as 
free  elements  but  as  compounds  or  mixtures. 
The  story-teller  must  do  many  things  all  at 
once,  and  yet  his  product  must  be  simple  and 
unified.  Thus,  in  his  symphony,  the  composer 
produces  an  harmonious  whole  from  the  blended 
tones  of  many  instruments. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DESCRIPTION  OF  PERSON  AND 
PLACE 

To  personal  description  reference  has  already 
been  made  in  the  chapter  upon  characterization, 
for  appearance  is  intimately  associated  with  per- 
sonality, and  play  of  feature  is  one  of  the  keys  to 
the  interpretation  of  emotion.  If  only  for  these 
reasons,  then,  the  writer  must  be  able  to  set 
forth,  more  or  less  fully  as  may  suit  his  purpose, 
the  form,  features,  dress,  and  surroundings  of  his 
creations,  and  the  emotions  which  these  arouse 
in  the  beholder.  All  this  is  not  easy.  Let  us 
first  consider  some  of  the  limitations  of  descrip- 
tive method,  and  then  some  of  its  possibiltiies. 

The  chief  difficulty  in  descriptive  writing  lies 
in  the  lack  of  correspondence  between  writing 
and  seeing.  We  see  a  man  as  a  whole,  a  group 
of  related  parts  to  be  sure,  but  a  unit  which  pro- 
duces a  single  and  instantaneous  effect  upon  the 
observer.  Yet,  when  we  endeavor  to  enumerate 
the  facts  of  his  appearance,  our  list  is  scarcely 
more  than  a  fist.  The  reader  by  the  time  he 
143 


144  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

has  grasped  the  last  item  has  forgotten  the  first, 
and  if  the  parts  be  many,  by  no  exercise  of  the 
imagination  can  he  so  piece  them  together  that 
they  will  form  the  original.  The  whole  is  indeed 
greater  than  the  sum  of  its  parts,  and  should,  if 
possible,  be  presented  in  a  word.  Yet,  if  we 
employ  so  many  as  two,  and  say  the  man  is  a 
"handsome  man"  or  an  "ugly  man"  we  have 
given  but  a  faint  conception  of  the  person  de- 
scribed. We  have,  indeed,  drawn  only  upon  the 
reader's  experience  of  good  looks  in  men,  and 
this  may  be  at  variance  with  our  own  experience. 

We  may  note  at  the  outset  of  our  discussion 
that  the  clever  writer  nowadays  makes  no  at- 
tempt to  picture  his  character  in  full  detail 
within  the  limits  of  a  paragraph.  The  futility 
of  such  an  endeavor  should  be  obvious,  though 
unskilled  writers  not  infrequently  essay  it.  The 
crafty  artist,  to  delineate  his  characters  swiftly 
and  clearly,  resorts,  instead,  to  various  devices, 
some  of  which  we  shall  consider. 

The  first  is  to  renounce  altogether  any  attempt 
at  personal  description.  This  is  to  avoid  the 
difficulty  with  a  vengeance,  and  the  writer  is 
justified  in  so  doing  only  as  he  is  certain  that  the 
reader's  visualization  of  characters  is  unimpor- 
tant in  the  story.  Sometimes  this  is  the  case. 
If  the  story  concerns  people  of  no  marked  phys- 
ical peculiarities,  if  they  are  typical,  common- 


DESCRIPTION  145 

place  persons  such  as  we  all  know,  we  may  feel^ 
no  need  of  visualizing  them  sharply.  The  story/ 
may  be  vivid  without  such  description ;  our  con- 
cern may  be  with  the  action,  or  with  the  psy- 
chology of  the  actors.  Externally,  any  one 
person — whom  we  may  visualize  of  our  own 
effort  without  hint  from  the  author — may  serve 
as  well  as  another  for  the  role  assigned.  Or  we 
may  make  no  attempt  to  visualize  the  character 
at  all,  whether  individual  or  typical,  though  we 
usually  supply  involuntarily  some  dim  concep- 
tion of  appearance. 

Between  the  total  avoidance  of  personal  de- 
scription and  complete  portraiture  lie  all  de- 
grees of  descriptive  fulness.  I  said  a  moment 
ago  that  to  characterize  a  man  by  a  single 
epithet  left  much  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of 
accuracy  and  clearness.  Yet  this  is  more  specific 
and  individual  than  to  call  him  merely  a  man. 
And  for  the  story's  purpose  the  single  epithet 
may  often  suffice.  Kipling  sometimes  employs 
this  succinct  method.  Thus  he  says  of  one  of 
his  characters:  "He  was  the  ugliest  man  in  ^-^^^ 
Asia  with  two  exceptions."  This  compelling 
exaggeration  assures  us  that  the  man  was  ugly 
indeed.  We  may  fill  in  the  details  as  we 
please. 

It  is  possible  in  a  phrase  to  be  far  more  definite 
than  this,  and  to  draw  a  truly  individual  picture. 


146  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Thus  Conrad:  "a  little  man,  dry  like  a  chip  and 
agile  like  a  monkey."  Again,  the  following  from 
Balzac,  which  though  wrenched  from  its  conte:(ft, 
shows  how  vivid  a  picture  may  be  drawn  in  short 
space:  "...  a  retreating  forehead,  a  small 
■-sL/  pointed  head,  and  a  pale  face  not  unlike  a  glass 
of  dirty  water.''  Here  we  have  a  vivid  and  con- 
cise picture,  the  details  so  few  that  we  may 
readily  assemble  them  and  form  a  distinct  and 
individual  portrait.  The  method  is  highly  selec- 
tive; Balzac  has  merely  touched  upon  the  indi- 
vidualizing details.  The  rest  we  may  fill  in  for 
ourselves.  We  collaborate  with  the  author,  and 
draw  the  picture  from  his  suggestions. 

To  enlist  the  reader's  assistance  is  the  aim  of 
the  good  descriptive  writer,  who  proceeds  on  the 
assumption  that  we  have,  each  of  us,  a  great 
fund  of  observation  memories  upon  which  he 
may  discreetly  draw.  His  effort,  therefore,  is  to 
enumerate  only  the  striking  features  of  his  char- 
acters, relying  upon  us  to  supply  what  he  does 
not  give.  It  is  surprising  how  rapid  and  vivid 
may  be  the  pictures  born  of  this  method  in  the 
hands  of  a  skilled  writer.  Conrad  possesses  this 
power  to  a  marked  degree.  I  quote  a  few  of  his 
rapid  sketches: 

''He  had  a  Roman  nose,  a  snow-white,  long 
beard,  and  his  name  was  Mahon." 

**Mrs.  Beard  was  an  old  woman,  with  a  face 


DESCRIPTION  147 

all  wrinkled  and  ruddy  like  a  winter  apple,  and 
the  figure  of  a  young  girl." 

One  a  bit  longer: 

"He  had  a  nutcracker  face — chin  and  nose 
coming  together  over  a  sunken  mouth — and  it 
was  framed  in  iron-gray  fluffy  hair  that  looked  y 
like  a  chin-strap  of  cotton  wool  sprinkled  with 
coal-dust.  And  he  had  blue  eyes  in  that  old  face 
of  his,  which  were  amazingly  like  a  boy's.  .  .  ." 

In  Carlyle's  letters  are  similar  bits  of  vivid 
portraiture.  The  method  is  an  admirable  one, 
but  calls  for  a  seeing  eye,  a  trained  sense  of  se- 
lection, and  a  power  of  telling  diction. 

Not  always,  however,  is  a  writer  content  with 
portraits  so  brief.  He  may  wish  to  give  his 
creations  at  full  length  and  in  considerable  de- 
tail. Inasmuch  as  he  can  scarcely  hope  to  do 
this  in  one  elaborate  study,  for,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  reader  cannot  be  counted  on  to  fit  all  the 
details  together,  he  must  then  introduce  his 
description  piecemeal,  giving  here  a  touch  and 
there  a  touch.  From  the  first,  the  reader  con- 
trives some  sort  of  likeness  true  to  the  original 
in  a  single  detail — the  eyes,  or  manner  of  walking 
perhaps.  This  dim  likeness  becomes,  with  a 
second  detail,  more  distinct,  and  at  the  end  we 
have  a  full  and  vivid  picture.  If  the  process  is 
sufficiently  slow,  the  reader  can  contrive  a  pic- 


148  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

ture  ultimately  complete  and  exact,  whereas  if 
he  were  overwhelmed  with  details  at  the  outset 
only  confusion  would  result. 

Other  methods  to  this  end  may,  however, 
sometimes  be  employed.  Thus  Stevenson  meets 
the  difficulty  when  The  Master,  in  The  Master 
of  Ballantrae,  first  appears  upon  the  scene: 

Captain  Crail  himself  was  steering,  a  thing 
not  usual;  by  his  side  there  sat  a  passenger; 
and  the  men  gave  way  with  difficulty,  being 
hampered  with  near  upon  half  a  dozen  portman- 
teaus, great  and  small.  But  the  business  of 
landing  was  briskly  carried  through;  and  pres- 
ently the  baggage  was  all  tumbled  on  shore,  the 
boat  on  its  return  voyage  to  the  lugger,  and  the 
passenger  standing  alone  upon  the  point  of  rock, 
a  tall,  slender  figure  of  a  gentleman,  habited  in 
black,  with  a  sword  by  his  side  and  a  walking- 
cane  upon  his  wrist.  .  .  . 

The  stranger  turned,  spied  me  through  the 
mists,  which  were  beginning  to  fall,  and  waved 
and  cried  on  me  to  draw  near.  I  did  so  with  a 
heart  like  lead. 

"Here,  my  good  man,"  said  he,  in  the  English 
accent,  "here  are  some  things  for  Durrisdeer." 

I  was  now  near  enough  to  see  him,  a  very 
handsome  figure  and  countenance,  swarthy,  lean, 
long,  with  a  quick,  alert,  black  look,  as  of  one 
who  was  a  fighter  and  accustomed  to  command; 
upon  one  cheek  he  had  a  mole,  not  unbecoming; 
a  large  diamond  sparkled  on  his  hand;  his 
clothes,  although  of  the  one  hue,  were  of  a  French 


DESCRIPTION  149 

and  foppish  design;  his  ruffles,  which  he  wore 
longer  than  common,  of  exquisite  lace;  and  I 
wondered  the  more  to  see  him  in  such  a  guise, 
when  he  was  but  newly  landed  from  a  dirty 
smuggling  lugger. 

This  is  true  to  observation.  In  the  distance 
we  get  but  a  general  impression — form,  height, 
and  the  like.  As  we  near  the  figure  we  are  able 
to  observe  with  more  minuteness.  Variants  on 
this  device  are  easily  possible.  If  the  person 
move  toward  us  or  we  toward  him,  or  if  we  see 
him  once  in  passing,  again  near  at  hand,  and  a 
third  time  face  to  face,  we  may  employ  a  like 
method,  and  without  confusion  draw  a  com- 
plete picture;  a  complete  picture,  however,  only 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  for  the  method  must 
always  be  selective,  and  unessential  details  be 
ignored.  In  description  it  is  the  details  by 
which  the  thing  differs  from  others  of  its  class 
that  are  sought.  Men  are  more  like  one  another 
than  unlike.  It  is  the  individual  unlikeness  we 
strive  to  catch;  or  again,  if  they  are  hopelessly 
commonplace,  the  essentials  of  their  very  hke- 
ness  to  others. 

The  shorter  the  narrative  the  less  space,  of 
course,  may  the  writer  devote  to  personal  de- 
scription. The  more  leisurely  methods  of  the 
novehst  permit  longer  descriptions  than  the 
short-story  writer  may  imitate.     Dickens  had  a 


I50  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

great  power  of  elaborate  and  vivid  description. 
Turgenieff,  who,  even  in  his  shorter  work  pursues 
a  leisurely  method,  was  likewise  highly  skilled. 
He  was,  indeed,  a  master  of  description.  The 
following  is  a  quotation  from  his  The  Singers: 

Behind  the  counter,  as  was  proper,  almost  to 
the  full  extent  of  the  aperture,  Nikolai  Ivanitch 
was  standing  in  a  gay-colored  cotton  shirt  and 
with  a  languid  smile  on  his  plump  cheeks,  and 
pouring  out  with  his  fat,  white  hands  two  glasses 
of  liquor  for  the  friends  who  had  just  entered, 
Blinker  and  the  Ninny;  and  behind  him,  in  the 
corner,  near  the  window,  his  brisk-eyed  wife  was 
to  be  seen.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood 
Yashka-the-Turk,  a  spare  and  well-built  man  of 
three-and-twenty  years,  clad  in  a  long-tailed 
nankeen  kaftan,  blue  in  color.  He  looked  like 
a  dashing  factory  hand,  and,  apparently,  could 
not  boast  of  very  robust  health.  His  sunken 
cheeks,  his  large,  uneasy  grey  eyes,  his  straight 
nose  with  thin,  mobile  nostrils,  his  white  reced- 
ing brow,  with  Hght  chestnut  curls  tossed  back, 
his  large  but  handsome  and  expressive  Hps — his 
whole  countenance  denoted  an  impressionable 
and  passionate  man.  He  was  in  a  state  of  great 
excitement:  his  eyes  were  winking  hard,  he  was 
breathing  irregularly,  his  hands  were  trembling 
as  though  with  fever, — and  he  really  had  a  fever, 
that  palpitating,  sudden  fever  which  is  so  familiar 
to  all  people  who  speak  or  sing  before  an  audience. 
Before  him  stood  a  man  about  forty  years  of  age, 
broad-shouldered,  with  broad  cheek-bones,  and 
a  low  brow,  narrow  Tatar  eyes,  a  short,  thick 


DESCRIPTION  151 

nose,  a  square  chin,  and  shining  black  hajr  as 
stiff  as  bristles.  The  expression  of  his  swarthy 
and  leaden-hued  face,  especially  of  his  pallid  lips, 
might  have  been  designated  as  almost  fierce, 
had  it  not  been  so  composedly-meditative.  He 
hardly  stirred,  and  only  slowly  glanced  around 
him,  like  an  ox  from  beneath  his  yoke.  He  was 
dressed  in  some  sort  of  a  threadbare  coat  with 
smooth,  brass  buttons;  an  old,  black  silk  ker- 
chief encircled  his  huge  neck.  He  was  called  the 
Wild  Gentleman.  .  .  . 

But  Turgenieff  is  scarcely  to  be  imitated  by 
the  beginner.  He  had,  apparently,  most  re- 
markable powers  of  observation,  a  visual  memory 
of  the  best,  and  was,  as  well,  master  of  a  style 
which  could  give  adequate  expression  to  these 
gifts.  That  this  vivid  description  is  one  of  the 
secrets  of  Turgenieff 's  power  goes  without  saying. 

Description  of  persons  and  things  need  not, 
however,  be  purely  visual.  Stevenson  was  of  the 
opinion  that  undue  reliance  is  placed  upon  the 
eye.  We  have,  as  well,  the  senses  of  hearing, 
touch,  smell,  and  taste.  Two  of  these,  at  least, 
may  be  employed  in  personal  description.  The 
quality  of  the  speaking  voice  and  of  laughter  are 
often  details  worth  noting.  And  we  may  judge 
of  a  man  by  his  hand  clasp,  if  it  be  strong  and 
warm,  or  cold,  feeble,  and  clammy. 

The  passage  from  The  Master  of  Ballantrae, 
previously   quoted,   reveals,    also,    another   re- 


152  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

source  of  personal  description.  Dress  is  sig- 
nificant of  much.  Not  only  is  it  important  to  the 
objective  picture,  but  it  tells  much  of  character 
£Lnd  social  position.  In  personal  description, 
therefore,  the  writer  should  take  care  to  visualize 
tJhe  garb  of  his  characters,  and  if  this  is  of  value 
to  the  story,  to  touch  it  off  with  whatever  fulness 
of  detail  he  sees  fit.  Neatness,  foppishness,  love 
of  adornment — all  these  may  be  noted  as  occa- 
sion demands.  So,  too,  may  attitude  and  bearing, 
grace  or  awkwardness,  anything,  in  short,  which 
serves  to  individualize  the  character  and  suggest 
social  distinctions  or  degrees  of  culture. 

We  should  observe,  too,  that  a  room,  or  an 
entire  house  and  its  surroundings  takes  on  to 
some  degree  the  characteristics  of  its  inmates. 
The  heroine's  bedroom  and  the  family  library 
may,  if  well  described,  serve  not  only  to  make 
scenes  therein  enacted  distinct,  but  may  also 
contribute  side-lights  on  character.  Books,  pic- 
tures, furniture,  and  wall-paper,  indicative  of 
individual  taste,  are  all  important.  The  good 
writer  may  bring  before  us  a  whole  class  of  so- 
ciety by  a  well-chosen  picture  of  the  appurte- 
nances with  which  his  creations  surround  them- 
selves. If  their  surroundings  are  conventional, 
whether  in  good  or  bad  taste,  we  may  suppose 
them  conventionally  minded  people;  if  indi- 
vidual, persons  of  some  force  of  character.    In 


DESCRIPTION  153 

careful  hands  the  possibilities  here  of  suggestive 
description  are  endless. 

Description  of  Place 

Much  that  has  already  been  brought  out  in 
personal  description  is  appHcable  as  well  to  de- 
scription of  place,  though  the  latter  is  somewhat 
more  complicated  and  difficult.  Whereas  the 
writer  may,  at  times,  avoid  personal  description 
or  employ  it  but  slightly,  he  may  seldom  evade 
the  necessity  of  depicting  the  background  for 
some  scenes  of  his  narrative,  for  if  the  story  is 
to  be  vivid  to  us,  we  need  to  visualize  the  action 
with  some  distinctness  and  must,  therefore,  have 
the  elements  of  the  picture  given  us  by  the 
writer. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  young 
writers  lean  too  heavily  upon  description. 
Background  assumes  too  large  a  place  in  their 
eyes.  Particularly  are  some  given  to  descrip- 
tions of  nature.  But  a  moment's  thought  will 
reveal  this  practice  to  be  a  mistaken  one.  The 
intelligent  reader  usually  skips,  or  at  best  skims, 
the  nature  description.  Experience  has  taught 
him  that  it  is  more  often  than  not  superfluous. 
Therefore  it  is  well  to  make  this  hard-and-fast 
rule:  never  describe  anything  that  is  not  strictly 
pertinent  to  the  story;  and  when  description  is 
necessary,  make  it  as  brief  as  possible. 


154  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Yet  though  this  precept  be  strictly  observed 
there  are  difficulties  enough  in  the  path  of  the 
writer.  The  conciseness  imposed  upon  him  is  a 
difficult  thing.  It  is  far  easier  to  write  a  toler- 
ably clear  long  description  than  one  equally 
clear  in  half  the  space.  The  selective  process 
becomes  increasingly  exacting  the  fewer  the 
words.  It  is  more  difficult  to  catch  the  quality 
of  a  place,  unless  it  be  unusually  striking,  in  few 
words  than  in  many.  There  are  numerous  de- 
tails which  may  be  told,  and  it  is  hard  to  deter- 
mine which  are  the  most  truly  significant. 

We  should  bear  in  mind,  also,  that  senses  other 
than  that  of  sight  play  a  much  more  important 
part  here  than  in  personal  description.  Sounds 
are  often  more  significant  than  things  seen,  and 
touch  the  reader  more  intimately — the  sound  of 
wind  in  the  trees,  or  of  running  water,  the  wooden 
cloop-cloop  of  horses'  feet  upon  the  pavement, 
the  purring  of  a  motor-car,  or  a  singing  trolley 
wire — these  have  individual  qualities  which  re- 
quire nice  definition  and  epithet.  Then  there 
are  the  odors  of  clover  fields  and  city  streets,  and 
odors  rightly  characterized  often  afford  the  writer 
his  most  vivid  descriptive  touches.  There  is  the 
feel  of  the  wind  on  the  face,  or  the  clinging  wetness 
of  snow  and  the  sting  of  sleet;  and  on  the  sea 
one  may  even  taste  the  salt  breeze  and  the  spray. 
The  complexity  of  these  sense  appeals,  to  which 


DESCRIPTION  155 

the  writer  must  be  ever  alert,  magnifies  the 
difficulty  of  his  problem  at  the  outset,  though 
affording  him  also  a  variety  of  materials  from 
which  to  select. 

The  order  of  the  presentment  of  these  impres- 
sions may  not  be  laid  down  absolutely.  If  the 
scene  described  is  an  elaborate  one  it  is  some- 
times well  to  sketch  its  outlines  broadly  and 
then  to  M  in  with  subordinate  details.  Some- 
times it  is  best  to  begin  with  the  more  immediate 
impressions  and  lead  the  eye  outward.  Again 
it  is  more  effective  to  begin  with  remoter  details 
and  then  lead  the  eye  to  things  near  at  hand. 
It  is  safest  usually  to  trust  the  order  in  which 
the  details  come  upon  a  good  observer  of  the 
scene  described.  Those  which  he  grasps  first  are 
usually  the  most  important;  then,  slowly,  he 
perceives  those  of  less  significance.  As  he  enters 
a  room  from  without  he  first  notes,  perhaps,  the 
change  in  temperature.  Then  he  conceives  a 
general  impression  of  the  room.  It  is  large  and 
bare,  or  comfortable  and  homely,  light  or  dark. 
He  perceives  at  once  if  there  be  a  fire  on  the 
hearth.  Then  he  notices  the  character  of  the 
furnishings,  the  neatness  or  lack  of  neatness  of 
the  room,  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  the  carpets 
and  rugs  on  the  floor.  This  descriptive  order, 
that  of  impression,  demands  that  the  writer 
visualize  clearly  as  he  writes. 


156  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

\  Often,  however,  the  writer  may  not  describe 
Ithe  scene  as  he  sees  it,  but  as  it  appears  to  his 
/characters.  Herein  Kes  a  great  difference,  for 
the  identical  scene  is  not  the  same  to  different 
persons.  Some  are  more  observant  than  others; 
some  are  trained  to  observe  certain  things;  again, 
all  are  struck  by  those  characteristics  which  are 
most  foreign  to  their  experience,  but  which  to 
those  familiar  with  the  scene  pass  imnoted  by 
dint  of  constant  repetition.  And,  most  of  all, 
the  scene  varies  with  the  mood  of  the  observer. 
If  I  am  happy,  joyous,  my  mood  selects  those 
impressions  of  the  scene  about  me  which  chime 
with  my  mood.  If  I  am  sad  I  shall  find  food 
for  sadness.  The  things  themselves  are  the 
same  in  either  case,  but  they  will  not  seem  alike 
to  me.    This  is  a  difficulty  the  story  writer 

(must  clearly  recognize.  He  must  see  truly 
through  another's  eyes,  and  to  do  this  he  must 
identify  his  mood  with  that  of  the  other,  if  the 
description  is  to  be  true. 

Inasmuch  as  the  chief  danger  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  place  is  that  it  may  not  be  truly  vital  and 
significant,  it  is  well  at  this  point  to  determine 
a  test  for  relevancy.  Our  consideration  has  been 
hitherto  the  reader's  opportunity  to  visualize 
and  enter  into  the  scene.  But  often  the  action 
is  not  vitally  related  to  its  background.  It 
might  occur  in  any  one  of  a  dozen  places  with 


DESCRIPTION  157 

equal  effect.  Action  and  character  suffice  of 
themselves.  In  such  a  case,  too  vivid  and  elab- 
orate a  description  of  scene  is  not  helpful,  but 
rather  distracting.*  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
characters  are  truly  influenced  by  their  sur- 
roundings, then  the  descriptive  setting  is  essen- 
tial to  the  reader's  appreciation  of  the  emotions 
aroused  in  the  persons  of  the  story.  This  is  the 
surest  test  of  pertinence.  If  the  hero  is  a  starv- 
ing castaway  on  a  desert  island,  a  vivid  picture 
of  his  surroundings  may  be  essential  to  our  appre- 
ciation of  his  emotions.  The  description  then 
is  an  integral  part  of  the  story.  But  if  the  hero, 
dominated  by  an  emotion  which  blinds  him  to* 
his  surroundings,  hastens  to  his  friend's  aid, 
description  of  the  journey  as  it  would  appeal  t( 
an  observant  traveller  would  be  distinctly  ou 
of  place.  We  must  see  through  the  hero's  eyes,j 
and  in  this  instance  he  sees  little  or  nothing, 
Security  lies  in  a  clear  grasp  of  the  character 
whose  experiences  are  told.  If  he  is  a  prosaic 
person,  little  moved  by  the  world  about  him,  the 
description  should  seek  only  those  sensations  of 
which  he  is  conscious — food  and  physical  com- 
fort it  may  be.  The  world  as  it  seems  to  him 
is  the  thing  sought.  It  must  be  admitted  as  a 
qualification,  however,  that  at  times,  we,  the 
readers,  with  our  larger  point  of  view  may  wish 
*  See  analysis  of  scene  in  The  Piece  of  Stringy  chapter  IV. 


158  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

to  contrast  him  with  his  surroundings,  to  appre- 
ciate what  is  lost  upon  him.  If  contrast  is  the 
aim,  descriptive  setting,  otherwise  superfluous 
and  irrelevant,  may  be  desirable. 

Emotion  we  found  to  be  a  legitimate  part  of 
description,  selecting,  coloring,  and  changing  the 
sense-impressions.  Psychologically,  sensation 
and  emotion  are,  it  is  said,  but  two  aspects  of  the 
same  thing.  The  sense  impression  produces  in 
me  an  emotion;  my  emotion  in  turn  colors  the 
next  sense  impression  which  comes  to  me.  If  I  de- 
scribe my  sense-impressions  in  words  sufficiently 
apt  you  will  perceive  the  emotion  which  I  feel, 
and  experience  an  echo  of  it.  If  I  reinforce  my 
record  of  impressions  by  emphasizing  in  abstract 
terms  their  effect  upon  me  and  say  that  I  am 
sad  or  happy,  or  if  I  transfer  these  terms  to  the 
scene  perceived,  declaring  it  to  be  sad  or  gloomy, 
cheerful  or  domestic,  then  I  have  strengthened 
the  emotional  effect  and  still  have  been  true  to 
the  facts,  i.  e.,  the  record  of  my  sense-impressions 
and  their  effect  upon  my  emotions.  The  writer 
in  his  description  should  seek  to  discover  the 
dominant  emotion  which  the  scene  produces, 
either  upon  him  or  upon  the  character  through 
whose  eyes  we  look.  If  he  does  this  he  will  be 
guided  in  his  selection  of  details,  for  he  will  seek 
such  as  harmonize  with  the  effect  which  he  wishes 
to  achieve.    Other  details,  not  in  harmony,  he 


DESCRIPTION  159 

will  ignore,  and  in  so  doing  he  will  gain  both  in 
conciseness  and  in  unity  of  impression.  Here  as 
everywhere  in  story  writing,  the  writer  must 
select,  and  his  selection  has  always,  as  its  ob- 
jective, simplicity  and  harmony — qualities  which 
lie  embedded  in  experience,  but  which  exist 
always  amid  distracting  and  incongruous  things. 

It  is  necessary  here  to  reconsider  in  part  the 
question  of  the  point  of  view  which  was  discussed 
in  a  previous  chapter.  In  telHng  a  story  it  is 
essential  that  in  every  case  the  point  of  view 
from  which  a  scene  is  described  be  clearly  in- 
dicated and,  once  determined,  be  carefully  main- 
tained. The  reason  for  this  will  be  apparent 
upon  a  little  consideration. 

The  reader  of  a  story  endeavors  to  put  himself 
either  in  the  place  of  the  observant  author  or 
of  one  of  the  characters,  and  so  to  visualize  the 
scene  described.  For  initial  clearness,  there- 
fore, the  descriptive  point  of  view  must  be  early 
declared.  Preferably,  the  descriptive  point  of 
view  should  coincide  with  that  of  the  character 
who  is  the  centre  of  the  reader's  interest,  for  in 
this  way  the  reader  may  follow  the  changes  in 
the  action  most  intimately.  It  is  then  impera- 
tive that  the  writer  describe  only  those  impres- 
sions which  could  plausibly  affect  the  character 
who  is  the  centre  of  interest.  He  cannot  see 
around  a  corner,  nor  over  a  high  wall,  and  to 


i6o  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

describe  what  is  going  on  thus  hidden  is  to  dis- 
tract the  reader,  who  in  imagination  has  placed 
himself  in  the  centre  of  the  scene,  and  who, 
though  he  may  follow  the  author  beyond  the 
range  of  human  vision,  can  do  so  only  at  the 
risk  of  confusion  and  imaginative  loss.  The 
imagination  is  ductile  truly,  but  it  cannot  regain 
the  original  point  of  view  without  effort  and  loss 
of  conviction. 

If  we  employ  the  term  description  in  its  full 
meaning  of  sensation  and  resultant  emotion,  we 
shall  find  that  it  plays  a  large  part  in  modern 
fiction.  Many  a  writer  nowadays  is  more  con- 
cerned with  the  portrayal  of  emotion  than  of 
action.  Robinson  Crusoe  is  a  bald  novel  of  in- 
cident. We  get  little  idea  of  Robinson's  emo-j 
tions  at  any  time,  and  then  but  crudely.  But  in/ 
the  modem  sea  stories  of  Conrad  our  interest  is 
largely  in  the  description.  The  incidents  serve 
chiefly  to  afford  opportunity  for  analysis  of  the 
hero's  sensations  and  emotions.  We  experience, 
in  his  person,  storms  and  the  calm  of  tropic  seas, 
the  gloom  of  African  forests  and  the  languorous 
charm  of  the  East.  But  there  is  here  no  "set 
description" — description,  that  is,  aside  from 
the  experience  of  the  characters.  It  is  all  a  part 
of  the  story,  indeed  constitutes  the  story.  This 
is  a  very  different  thing  from  the  nature-writing 
of  the  older  school,  in  which  the  heroine  paused 


DESCRIPTION  i6i 

to  admire  the  sunset  for  two  pages  from  a  sense 
of  duty. 

That  writing  should  be  specific  and  concrete 
rather  than  abstract  and  general  is  a  common- 
place of  criticism.  The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek. 
Appeals  to  the  senses  and  to  the  emotions  are 
more  powerful  than  those  to  the  intelligence; 
Shakespeare's  plays  are  more  vital  contributions 
to  the  philosophy  of  the  average  reader  than  are 
the  metaphysical  speculations  of  Kant.  We 
move  in  a  world  of  sense  appeals;  our  emotions 
are  aroused  ten  times  where  our  intellects  are 
stirred  but  once.  Therefore  literature  is  devoted 
to  the  portrayal  of  individual  actions,  to  specific 
scenes,  and  its  content  is  concrete  for  the  most 
part,  designed  to  arouse  the  emotions  through 
definite  appeals  to  the  senses  of  sight,  hearing, 
touch,  taste,  and  smell.  We  ask  that  descrip- 
tion vitalize  the  details  of  a  scene  to  the  point 
that  we  may  definitely  apprehend  them  in  imagi- 
nation. This  is  the  general  law,  but  it  is  sub- 
ject to  exceptions. 

A  number  of  years  ago,  about  fifteen  at  this 
writing,  Stephen  Crane  developed  the  impres- 
sionistic manner  of  writing  in  the  short  story. 
In  The  Red  Badge  of  Courage  and  other  stories 
he  practised  a  method  of  descriptive  vividness 
which  may  best  be  likened  to  the  old  style  post- 
ers of  startling  and  contrasting  colors.    Details 


i62  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

of  background  or  of  personal  appearance  are 
given  an  exaggerated  emphasis.  Intrinsically 
important  or  no,  they  are,  by  selection,  made  to 
stand  out  by  vivid  epithet  and  particularizing 
word  and  phrase.  An  abrupt  sentence  structure 
serves  to  emphasize  this  effect.  The  following 
passages  from  The  Bride  Comes  to  Yellow  Sky 
are  characteristic: 

Across  the  sandy  street  were  some  vivid  green 
grass  plots,  so  wonderful  in  appearance  amid  the 
sands  that  burned  near  them  in  a  blazing  sun 
that  they  caused  a  doubt  in  the  mind.  They 
exactly  resembled  the  grass  mats  used  to  repre- 
sent lawns  on  the  stage.  At  the  cooler  end  of 
the  railway  station  a  man  without  a  coat  sat  in 
a  tilted  chair  and  smoked  his  pipe.  The  fresh 
cut  banks  of  the  Rio  Grande  circled  near  the 
town,  and  there  could  be  seen  beyond  it  a  great 
plum-colored  plain  of  mesquite. 


A  man  in  a  maroon  colored  flannel  shirt,  which 
had  been  purchased  for  purposes  of  decoration, 
and  made,  principally,  by  some  Jewish  women 
on  the  east  side  of  New  York,  rounded  a  corner 
and  walked  into  the  main  street  of  Yellow  Sky. 
In  either  hand  the  man  held  a  long,  heavy,  blue- 
black  revolver.  Often  he  yelled,  and  these  cries 
rang  through  the  semblance  of  a  deserted  village, 
shrilly  flying  over  the  roofs  in  a  volume  that 
seemed  to  have  no  relation  to  the  ordinary  vocal 
strength  of  a  man.    It  was  as  if  the  surrounding 


DESCRIPTION  163 

stillness  formed  the  arch  of  a  tomb  over  him. 
These  cries  of  ferocious  challenge  rang  against 
walls  of  silence.  And  his  boots  had  red  tops 
with  gilded  imprints,  of  the  kind  beloved  in 
winter  by  little  sledding  boys  on  the  hillsides 
of  New  England. 

I  should  not  speak  of  this  mannerism  were  not 
the  influence  of  Crane  and  his  followers  still 
strong  in  magazine  fiction,  and  did  it  not  bear 
intimately  upon  the  problem  of  description. 
There  is  in  the  method  a  fatal  weakness  which  we 
should  note.  It  is  this:  the  untiring  effort  to 
gain  descriptive  vividness,  if  unrelieved,  fails  of 
its  purpose.  When  every  detail  is  as  sharp  and 
individual  as  the  next,  there  is  no  contrast  pos- 
sible. It  is  as  though  a  pianist  should  play 
fortissimo  throughout  his  sonata.  Effects  are 
got  by  contrast.  A  vivid  detail  is  outstanding 
in  a  neutral  context,  like  a  red  golfing  coat  on  a 
snow-covered  links.  But  if  all  epithets  are 
violent,  challenging  the  attention,  in  time  the 
reader  grows  weary,  and  the  writer  fails  of  his 
effect.  The  skilful  writer,  therefore,  seeks  de- 
scriptive vividness  only  when  his  story  demands 
it — that  is,  in  vital  scenes.  He  does  not  burden 
his  narrative  with  details  not  strictly  relevant, 
however  much  opportunity  they  afford  for 
graphic  description,  for  to  emphasize  them  would 
be  to  distract  us  from  other  and  more  important 


i64  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

matters.  Proportion,  restraint,  contrast,  em- 
phasis— all  are  terms  relevant  in  this  connection, 
and  more  than  description  is  involved,  though  I 
have  attached  my  homily  to  it. 

A  passage  in  Henry  James's  essay,  **The  Art 
of  Fiction,"  makes  clear  in  better  words  than 
mine,  the  interdependence  of  action,  dialogue, 
and  description.  No  one  is  to  be  thought  of  as 
a  thing  apart.  All  are  fused  for  the  story's  pur- 
pose. Description  so  conceived  loses  all  merely 
decorative  significance,  and  becomes  a  vital  ele- 
ment of  the  story  structure: 

.  .  .  That  his  characters  "must  be  clear  in 
outline,"  as  Mr.  Besant  says — he  feels  that  down 
to  his  boots;  but  how  he  shall  make  them  so  is 
a  secret  between  his  good  angel  and  himself.  It 
would  be  absurdly  simple  if  he  could  be  taught 
that  a  great  deal  of  "description"  would  make 
them  so,  or  that  on  the  contrary,  the  absence  of 
description  and  the  cultivation  of  dialogue,  or 
the  absence  of  dialogue  and  the  multiphcation 
of  "incident,"  would  rescue  him  from  his  diffi- 
culties. Nothing,  for  instance,  is  more  possible 
than  that  he  be  of  a  turn  of  mind  for  which  this 
odd,  literal  opposition  of  description  and  aiaiogue, 
incident  and  description,  has  little  meaning  and 
light.  People  often  talk  of  these  things  as  if 
they  had  a  kind  of  internecine  distinctness,  in- 
stead of  melting  into  each  other  at  every  breath, 
and  being  intimately  associated  parts  of  one 
general  effort  of  expression.    I  cannot  imagine 


DESCRIPTION  165 

composition  existing  in  a  series  of  blocks,  nor 
conceive,  in  any  novel  worth  discussing  at  all, 
of  a  passage  of  description  that  is  not  in  its  in- 
tention narrative,  a  passage  of  dialogue  that  is 
not  in  its  intention  descriptive,  a  touch  of  truth 
of  any  sort  that  does  not  partake  of  the  nature 
of  incident,  or  an  incident  that  derives  its  inter- 
est from  any  other  source  than  the  general  and 
only  source  of  the  success  of  a  work  of  art — that 
of  being  illustrative.  A  novel  is  a  Hving  thing, 
all  one  and  continuous,  like  any  other  organism, 
and  in  proportion  as  it  lives  will  it  be  found,  I 
think,  that  in  each  of  the  parts  there  is  some- 
thing of  each  of  the  other  parts.  The  critic  who 
over  the  close  texture  of  a  finished  work  shall 
pretend  to  trace  a  geography  of  items  will  mark 
some  frontiers  as  artificial,  I  fear,  as  any  that 
have  been  known  to  history. 

A  good  illustration  of  description  made  vital 
to  the  story,  given  an  important  place,  and  yet 
subordinated  to  the  story-action,  is  not  to  be 
found  in  every  novelist.  The  passage  which  I 
quote  from  Rene  Bazin's  Redemption  is,  however, 
fairly  illustrative  of  the  point.  The  scene  as 
described  affects  the  characters  somewhat,  caus- 
ing them  to  speak  and  act  as  they  do.  That  it 
arouses  different  emotions  in  the  two  girls  serves 
also  to  reveal  personality; 

.  .  .  Henriette  had  already  greeted  several 
fricDds,  escaped  for  the  day  from  their  work- 


i66  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

rooms,  like  herself.  One  of  them  walked  arm-in- 
arm  with  a  young  man.  They  laughed  because 
they  loved  each  other,  and  their  love  was  quite 
new.  They  crossed  the  bridge,  and  Marie  fol- 
lowed them  for  a  long  time  with  her  sombre, 
ardent  eye. 

As  they  reached  the  end  of  Bouffay  quay,  a 
gust  of  wind  almost  blew  away  their  hats. 

**How  lovely  to  feel  the  wind,"  said  Henriette. 
"I  have  to  do  without  it  all  the  week,  in  the 
workroom  at  least,  for  at  home  we  are  so  high 
up  that  no  feather  could  keep  in  curl." 

"I  think  it  is  a  nuisance,  it  makes  one  untidy," 
said  Marie,  pinning  up  her  heavy  locks,  which 
were  always  coming  down. 

By  this  time  the  breath  of  the  Loire,  with  its 
fragrance  of  poplar,  had  begun  to  blow  around 
the  two  girls.  It  passed  in  fresh  gusts,  seeking 
the  sails  and  mills,  and  wandering  over  the 
country  like  bees  in  search  of  clover.  Between 
each  gust  the  atmosphere  seemed  dead;  it 
promised  to  be  a  very  hot  day.  Henriette  and 
Marie  followed  the  Saint-Felix  canal,  and  so 
gained  the  banks  of  the  real  Loire,  no  longer 
pressed  upon  by  houses,  or  broken  by  islands, 
but  flowing  wide  and  slow  in  an  unbroken  stream, 
between  meadows  Hghtly  set  with  trees.  Toward 
the  east,  on  the  far  horizon,  the  trees  were 
grouped  and  drawn  together,  by  the  effect  of 
distance,  so  that  the  river  seemed  to  flow  from  a 
blue  forest,  then  they  showed  more  widely  scat- 
tered, waving  above  the  grass  in  Unes  of  pale 
foUage  through  which  the  hght  filtered.  The 
stream  flowed  in  the  middle,  gradually  widening 


DESCRIPTION  167 

the  yellow  ripples  of  its  waters.  The  rising 
water  covered  the  sandbanks.  The  ripe  grass 
bent  over  the  banks  and  plunged  into  the  current. 
A  single  pleasure  boat,  hidden  beneath  its  sails, 
glided  along  the  opposite  bank. 

Henriette  had  waited  to  reach  this  point, 
meaning  to  say: 

"See  how  pretty  it  is!  The  Loutrel's  cottage 
is  still  a  long  way  off — over  there."  But  when 
she  glanced  at  Marie,  she  saw  her  looking  so 
pale,  that  it  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts, 
and  she  felt  only  an  invincible  desire  to  console 
this  human  suffering. 

This  quiet  descriptive  passage  is  in  its  place 
surely  not  ineffective.  Yet  many  an  author 
would  subordinate  the  background  yet  more. 
George  Meredith,  in  The  Egoist,  affords  an  ex- 
treme example.  The  story  is  confined  to  Sir  Wil- 
loughby  Patterne's  estate.  Throughout  the  book 
there  is  a  fine  outdoor  atmosphere.  Yet  the  de- 
scriptive hints  from  which  we  are  enabled  to 
contrive  a  picture  are  of  the  briefest,  and  these 
are  always  made  an  integral  part  of  action  or 
dialogue.  I  cite  a  number  of  the  widely  sepa- 
rated passages.  Observe  their  extreme  brevity, 
and  their  reliance  upon  suggestion  rather  than 
upon  elaborate  detail: 

He  led  her  about  the  flower-beds;  too  much 
as  if  he  were  giving  a  convalescent  an  airing. 
She  chafed  at  it  and  pricked  herself  with  re- 


i68  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

morse.  In  contrition  she  expatiated  on  the 
beauty  of  the  garden. 

''All  is  yours,  my  Clara." 

An  oppressive  load  it  seemed  to  her!  She 
passively  yielded  to  the  man  in  his  form  of  at- 
tentive courtier;  his  mansion,  estate,  and  wealth 
overwhelmed  her.  They  suggested  the  price  to 
be  paid.  Yet  she  recollected  that  on  her  last 
departure  through  the  park  she  had  been  proud 
of  the  rolHng  green  and  spreading  trees.  Poison 
of  some  sort  must  be  operating  in  her.  She  had 
not  come  to  him  to-day  with  this  feeling  of 
sullen  antagonism;   she  had  caught  it  here. 

"Because,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  leaning  on 
her  elbow,  "you  are  a  very  nice  boy,  but  an  un- 
grateful boy,  and  there  is  no  telling  whether  you 
will  not  punish  any  one  who  cares  for  you. 
Come  along  with  me;  pluck  me  some  of  these 
cowslips  and  the  speedwells  near  them;  I  think 
we  both  love  wild  flowers."  She  rose  and  took 
his  arm.  "You  shall  row  me  on  the  lake  while 
I  talk  to  you  seriously." 

It  was  she,  however,  who  took  the  sculls  at 
the  boat-house,  for  she  had  been  a  playfellow 
with  boys,  and  knew  that  one  of  them  engaged 
in  a  manly  exercise  is  not  likely  to  listen  to  a 
woman. 

The  opportunity  was  offered  by  Sir  Willoughby. 
Every  morning  after  breakfast  Miss  Dale  walked 
across  the  park  to  see  her  father,  and  on  this 
occasion  Sir  Willoughby  and  Miss  Middleton 
went  with  her  as  far  as  the  lake,  all  three  dis- 


DESCRIPTION  169 

coursing  of  the  beauty  of  various  trees,  birches, 
aspens,  poplars,  beeches,  then  in  their  new  green. 
Miss  Dale  loved  the  aspen.  Miss  Middleton  the 
beech,  Sir  Willoughby  the  birch,  and  pretty 
things  were  said  by  each  in  praise  of  the  favored 
object,  particularly  by  Miss  Dale.  So  much  so 
that  when  she  had  gone  on  he  recalled  one  of  her 
remarks,  and  said:  ''I  beHeve,  if  the  whole  place 
were  swept  away  to-morrow,  Laetitia  Dale  could 
reconstruct  it  and  put  those  aspens  on  the  north 
of  the  lake  in  number  and  situation  correctly 
where  you  have  them  now.  I  would  guarantee 
her  description  of  it  in  absence  correct." 

Laetitia  tried  another  neutral  theme. 

*'The  weather  to-day  suits  our  country,"  she 
said. 

''England,  or  Patterne  Park?  I  am  so  de- 
voted to  mountains  that  I  have  no  enthusiasm 
for  flat  land." 

"Do  you  call  our  country  flat,  Miss  Middle- 
ton?  We  have  undulations,  hills,  and  we  have 
sufficient  diversity,  meadows,  rivers,  copses, 
brooks,  and  good  roads,  and  pretty  by-paths." 

"The  prettiness  is  overwhelming.  It  is  very 
pretty  to  see;  but  to  live  with,  I  think  I  prefer 
ugHness.  I  can  imagine  learning  to  love  ugliness. 
It's  honest.  However  young  you  are,  you  can 
not  be  deceived  by  it.  These  parks  of  rich  peo- 
ple are  a  part  of  the  prettiness.  I  would  rather 
have  fields,  commons." 

"The  parks  give  us  delightful  green  walks, 
paths  through  beautiful  woods." 

"If  there  is  a  right-of-way  for  the  public." 


I70  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

*' There  should  be,"  said  Miss  Dale,  wondering; 
and  Clara  cried: 

"  I  chafe  at  restraint;  hedges  and  palings  every- 
where! I  should  have  to  travel  ten  years  to  sit 
down  contented  among  these  fortifications.  Of 
course  I  can  read  of  this  rich  kind  of  English 
country  with  pleasure  in  poetry.  But  it  seems 
to  me  to  require  poetry.  What  would  you  say 
of  human  beings  requiring  it?  " 

Clara  gazed  over  rolling  richness  of  foliage, 
wood  and  water,  and  a  church-spire,  a  town,  and 
horizon  hills.     There  sung  a  sky-lark. 

"Not  even  the  bird  that  does  not  fly  away!'' 
she  said ;  meaning,  she  had  no  heart  for  the  bird 
satisfied  to  rise  and  descend  in  this  place. 

He  crossed  a  stile  into  the  wood  above  the 
lake,  where,  as  he  was  in  tlie  humor  to  think 
himself  signally  lucky,  espying  her,  he  took  it 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  the  lady  who  taught 
his  heart  to  leap  should  be  posted  by  the  Fates. 
And  he  wondered  Httle  at  her  power,  for  rarely 
had  the  world  seen  such  union  of  princess  and 
sylph  as  in  that  lady's  figure.  She  stood  holding 
by  a  beech  branch,  gazing  down  on  the  water. 

An  instance  analogous  to  this  of  Meredith  is 
that  oi  As  You  Like  It,  in  which  the  woodland 
setting  is  made  vivid  by  means  of  but  a  few 
touches.  For  more  conventional  passages  of 
swift  and  effective  description,  the  student  is 
referred  to  Stevenson  and  Kipling.    For  elaborate 


DESCRIPTION  171 

descriptive  stories  in  which  description  dominates 
action,  he  may  consult  Conrad,  Turgenieff,  and 
Thomas  Hardy.  I  shall  quote,  in  conclusion,  a 
number  of  short  passages  to  illustrate  some  of 
the  points  brought  out  in  our  discussion: 

.  .  .  The  two  sleek,  white  well-bullocks  in 
the  courtyard  were  steadily  chewing  the  cud  of 
their  evening  meal;  old  Pir  Khan  squatted  at 
the  head  of  Holden^s  horse,  his  pohce  sabre 
across  his  knees,  pulHng  drowsily  at  a  big  water- 
pipe  that  croaked  like  a  bullfrog  in  a  pond. 
Ameera's  mother  sat  spinning  in  the  lower  ve- 
randa, and  the  wooden  gate  was  shut  and  barred. 
The  music  of  a  marriage-procession  came  to  the 
roof  above  the  gentle  hum  of  the  city,  and  a 
string  of  flying-foxes  crossed  the  face  of  the  low 
moon. — (KipHng,  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy.) 

Here  the  quality  to  be  observed  is  the  swift- 
ness with  which  the  scene  is  sketched.  Kipling 
has  selected  only  a  few  details,  but  these  suffi- 
cient to  give  character  to  the  scene.  The  effect 
is  one  of  heat,  and  beauty,  and  strangeness;  6f 
domestic  content  shut  in  from  the  world  without: 

And  this  is  how  I  see  the  East.  I  have  seen 
its  secret  places  and  have  looked  into  its  very 
soul;  but  now  I  see  it  always  from  a  small  boat, 
a  high  outline  of  mountains,  blue  and  afar  in  the 
morning;  like  faint  mist  at  noon;  a  jagged  wall 
of  purple  at  sunset.  I  have  the  feel  of  the  oar  in 
my  hand,  the  vision  of  a  scorching  blue  sea  in 


172  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

my  eyes.  And  I  see  a  bay,  a  wide  bay,  smooth 
as  glass  and  polished  like  ice,  shimmering  in  the 
dark.  A  red  Kght  burns  far  off  upon  the  gloom 
of  the  land,  and  the  night  is  soft  and  warm.  We 
drag  at  the  oars  with  aching  arms,  and  suddenly 
a  puff  of  wind,  a  puff  faint  and  tepid  and  laden 
with  strange  odors  of  blossoms,  of  aromatic 
wood,  comes  out  of  the  still  night — the  first 
sigh  of  the  East  on  my  face.  That  I  can  never 
forget.  It  was  impalpable  and  enslaving,  like 
a  charm,  like  a  whispered  promise  of  mysterious 
delight. — (Joseph  Conrad,  Youth.) 

In  this  there  is  variety  of  sense  appeal;  the 
whole  weight  of  the  description  is  not  placed 
upon  vision  alone.  Also,  and  most  important, 
we  catch  the  emotional  resultant  of  the  scene, 
which  serves  to  unify  the  selected  details: 

The  frowsy  chamber-maid  of  the  ''Red  Lion" 
had  just  finished  washing  the  front  door  steps. 
She  rose  from  her  stooping  posture,  and,  being 
of  slovenly  habit,  flung  the  water  from  her  pail, 
straight  out,  without  moving  from  where  she 
stood.  The  smooth  round  arch  of  the  falling 
•  water  glistened  for  a  moment  in  mid-air.  John 
Gourlay,  standing  in  front  of  his  new  house  at 
the  head  of  the  brae,  pould  hear  the  swash  of  it 
when  it  fell.  The  morning  was  of  perfect  still- 
ness. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  across  ''the  Square" 
were  pointing  to  the  hour  of  eight.  They  were 
.  yellow  in  the  sun. 


DESCRIPTION  173 

Blowsalinda,  of  the  Red  Lion,  picked  up 
the  big  bass  that  usually  lay  within  the  porch 
and,  carrying  it  clumsily  against  her  breast, 
moved  off  round  the  corner  of  the  public  house, 
her  petticoat  gaping  behind.  Half-way  she 
met  the  ostler  with  whom  she  stopped  in  amorous 
daUiance.  He  said  something  to  her,  and  she 
laughed  loudly  and  vacantly.  The  silly  tee-hee 
echoed  up  the  street. 

A  moment  later  a  cloud  of  dust  drifting  round 
the  corner,  and  floating  white  in  the  still  air, 
showed  that  she  was  pounding  the  bass  against 
the  end  of  the  house.  All  over  the  little  town  the 
women  of  Barbie  were  equally  busy  with  their 
steps  and  door-mats.  There  was  scarce  a  man 
to  be  seen  either  in  the  square,  at  the  top  of 
which  Gourlay  stood,  or  in  the  long  street  de- 
scending from  its  near  corner.  The  men  were 
at  work;  the  children  had  not  yet  appeared;  the 
women  were  busy  with  their  household  cares. 

The  freshness  of  the  air,  the  smoke  rising  thin 
and  far  above  the  red  chimneys,  the  sunshine 
glistering  on  the  roofs  and  gables,  the  rosy 
clearness  of  everything  beneath  the  dawn,  above 
all  the  quietness  and  peace,  made  Barbie,  usually 
so  poor  to  see,  a  very  pleasant  place  to  look  down 
at  on  a  summer  morning.  At  this  hour  there  was 
an  unfamiliar  delicacy  in  the  familiar  scene,  a 
freshness  and  purity  of  aspect — alpiost-axL-un^-'' 
earthliness — as  though  you  viewed  it  through  a 
crystal  dream.  ... 

L  Through  the  big  gate  behind  *him/ [Gourlay] 
came  the  sound  of  carts  being  loaded  for  the  day. 
A  horse  weary  of  standing  idle  between  the  shafts, 


174  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

kicked  ceaselessly  and  steadily  against  the  ground 

with  one  impatient  hinder  foot,   clink,   clink, 

clink  upon  the  paved  yard.     ''Easy,  damn  ye; 

ye'U  smash  the  bricks!"  came  a  voice.     Then 

there  was  the  smart  slap  of  an  open  hand  on  a 

sleek  neck,  a  quick  start,  and  the  rattle  of  chains 

as  the  horse  quivered  to  the  blow. — (Douglas, 

The  House  with  the  Green  Shutters,) 
f 

In  the  last  description  the  descriptive  point 

of  view  is  chiefly  notable.     It  is  early  and  clearly 

indicated,  and  is  strictly  maintained  throughout. 

Thus  the  scene  of  the  carters  is  told  by  means  of 

sound  only,  yet  so  clearly  that  we  can  visuaHze 

it.    We  hear  the  chamber-maid's  laughter,  but 

not  her  words,  for  we  are  too  far  away.    When 

she  goes  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  the 

cloud  of  dust  indicates  that  she  is  cleaning  the 

door-mat. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DIALOGUE 

Speech  in  short  stories  and  novels  must,  first 
of  all,  reveal  character.  It  is  by  speech  as  well 
as  by  action  and  analysis  that  personality  is 
made  real  to  the  reader.  As  the  people  of  the 
story  differ  one  from  another,  so  must  their 
speech  be  in  character.  The  newsboy  must  not 
speak  like  a  poet;  the  sincere  man  must  speak 
sincerely,  and  the  false  friend  reveal — to  the 
reader  at  least — his  duplicity.  This  is  not  to 
say  that  every  word  need  bear,  always,  the  stamp 
of  individuality.  There  are  many  occasions  in 
which  the  speech  of  one  differs  not  at  all  from 
the  speech  of  another,  in  which  no  characteriza- 
tion is  possible.  There  is  a  common  ground  of 
utterance  of  which  all  that  is  asked  is  that  the 
speech  shall  not  be  out  of  character.  But  in 
many  instances  it  must  be  something  more,  be 
accurately  significant  and  individual,  conveying 
unmistakably  the  personahty  of  the  speaker, 
who  differs  from  every  one  else  in  the  story. 
That  it  should  do  this  impHes,  of  course,  that 
175 


176  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  writer  enter  truly  into  the  hearts  and  speak 
through  the  mouths  of  his  characters.  He  must 
be  an  actor  skilled  in  many  parts,  which  he  can 
lay  aside  at  will.  This  power  is  fully  realized 
by  Shakespeare,  whose  characters  usually  reveal 
themselves  with  marked  individuality,  and  are 
eternally  dififerent  one  from  another.  Othello 
and  lago  differ  not  only  in  their  deeds,  but  in 
their  speech  as  well.  Act  and  word  are  aHke 
characteristic. , 

Yet  the  record  of  characteristic  speech  does 
not  suffice  to  constitute  dialogue;  the  writer 
must  also  advance  his  story.  If  he  becomes  ab- 
sorbed in  his  dialogue  he  may  devise  conversa- 
tion which  interests  the  reader,  but  which,  none 
the  less,  retards  the  action.  The  proportions, 
the  true  emphasis  of  his  story,  will  suffer  thereby. 
The  characters  must  set  forth  certain  precon- 
ceived  situations.  These  must  be  adequately  de- 
veloped; neither  must  they  be  overemphasized. 
Once  a  situation  is  clearly  revealed  the  story  pro- 
ceeds to  the  development  of  a  second.  The 
shorter  the  development,  if  adequate  to  the  needs 
of  the  story,  the  better.  To  achieve  this  dual 
purpose  of  speech,  characterization  and  develop- 
ment of  situation,  is  a  difficult  thing;  yet  in  a 
good  story  it  may  easily  be  remarked.  The 
passage  from  Markheim  quoted  in  an  earlier 
chapter  is  a  line  instance.    There  we  saw  not 


DIALOGUE  177 

only  the  character  of  the  prospective  murderer, 
but  were  also  enlightened  by  every  speech  as  to 
the  impending  action.  Character  development 
and  action  proceeded  hand  in  hand,  mutually 
interdependent.  ,' 

In  the  accomplishment  of  his  story  purpose 
through  dialogue,  the  writer  must  meet  and  over- 
come several  difficulties  if  he  is  to  be  clear,  swift, 
and  at  the  same  time  achieve  an  effect  of  natural- 
ness. In  conversation  we  rely  not  upon  words 
alone,  but  upon  tone  of  voice,  gesture,  and  play 
of  feature.  From  these  we  interpret  the  impli- 
cations of  the  thing  said,  the  spirit  which  ani- 
mates the  words  and  gives  them  significance. 
These  are,  so  to  speak,  the  context  of  the  spoken 
phrase.  Herein  lies  one  of  the  problems  of  the 
story  writer :  he  must  learn  to  make  his  dialogue 
convey  not  only  superficial  meanings,  but  the 
very  intent  of  the  speaker.  It  is  true  that  the 
writer  may  describe  the  tone  of  the  speaker,  and 
may  even  declare  the  intent,  thus  illuminating 
the  utterance,  but  to  do  this  overmuch  would 
be  to  make  the  story  tedious  and  slow.  Instead 
he  must,  for  the  most  part,  so  phrase  his  dialogue 
that  without  explanatory  comment  its  meaning 
and  intent  are  unmistakable  both  to  the  other 
persons  of  the  story,  and  to  the  reader.  This, 
however,  is  but  half  the  difficulty. 

If  we  were  to  make  a  phonographic  record  of 


178  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  conversation  we  hear  in  pubUc  places,  or  at 
social  functions — on  the  street-car,  in  stores,  or 
at  receptions  and  dinner  parties — we  should  be 
struck  on  rehearing  it  with  its  general  inade- 
quacy. From  many  words  would  emerge  but  a 
slight  kernel  of  meaning,  and  this  often  not  clear 
and  unmistakable.  We  are  poor  speakers,  most 
of  us,  unable  to  express  precisely  what  we  mean. 
Ours  is  not  a  rifle  which  pinks  the  bull's-eye  of 
meaning,  but  a  shotgun  aimed  in  a  general  direc- 
tion, and  from  our  scattered  remarks  perhaps 
but  one  attains  its  proper  objective.  Our  speech 
is  repetitious  and  inaccurate. 

Were  the  story  writer  to  take  his  conversation 
unchanged  from  life,  he  would  be  long-winded. 
It  is  his  task  to  clarify  the  turbid  and  wasteful 
flow  of  speech  and  direct  it  into  exact  channels. 
His  characters  must  speak  to  an  end,  and  that 
end  must  be  swiftly  and  accurately  realized.  In 
so  far  as  dialogue  attains  this  artistic  perfection 
it  differs  from  the  language  of  every  day.  It  is 
selective  and  interpretative  rather  than  Hteral. 

The  writer  should,  then,  set  himself  the  task 
of  conveying  in  concise  phrase  the  speaker's 
thought,  the  intended  meaning,  rather  than  of 
reporting  with  plausible  accuracy  the  inadequate 
spoken  words.  That  he  shall  fail  to  do  this  is  a 
real  danger  if  he  is  endowed  with  some  gift  of 
auditory  imagination,  and  can  start  his  char- 


DIALOGUE  179 

acters  conversing  with  a  degree  of  naturalness. 
They  will,  then,  too  often  take  the  story  into 
their  own  hands  and  talk  to  no  profitable  end; 
the  dialogue  will  become  an  end  in  itself.  It  is 
a  danger  which  besets  young  and  clever  writers 
who  are  carried  away  by  the  reality  of  their  own 
creations.  As  a  check  upon  this  tendency  the 
writer  must  keep  constantly  before  him  the  pur- 
poses of  dialogue — character  revelation  and  the 
advancement  of  the  story  action. 

LiTERALNESS   OF   SPEECH 

Let  us  now  turn  to  another  aspect  of  the 
problem  of  effective  dialogue,  that  of  literalness 
of  speech.  A  phonographic  record  of  chance 
conversation  would  reveal,  we  said,  the  general 
inadequacy  and  wordiness  of  normal  speech.  It 
would  reveal  yet  more;  peculiarities  of  pronun- 
ciation and  diction,  which  we  pass  unheeding 
when  our  attention  is  centred  rather  on  the 
meaning  of  speech  than  on  its  manner,  would  on 
our  record  be  apparent.  There  is  a  normal  pro- 
nunciation varying  in  different  classes  of  society, 
and  a  normal  vocabulary,  likewise  variable, 
which  we  individually  approximate  but  to  which 
no  one  of  us  exactly  conforms.  All  are  possessed 
of  mannerisms  to  a  greater  or  less  degree.  What 
heed  must  the  writer  pay  to  these  individual  or 
class  differences?    The  question  is  not  simple, 


i8o  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

for  there  are  several  considerations  which  must 
be  taken  into  account. 

We  may  safely  generalize  to  this  extent:  in  a 
story  any  departure  from  normal  speech  attracts 
attention  to  itself;  therefore  all  departure  must 
be  intentional,  must  be  for  a  legitimate  pur- 
pose. It  may  be  that  I  have  the  bad  habit  of 
pronouncing  my  a's  flatly  or  of  slurring  the  final 
g  of  my  participles.  This  peculiarity  reveals  a 
slight  departure  from  the  best  usage  of  English 
speech,  and  bespeaks  some  inadequacy  in  my 
training,  or,  it  may  be,  only  an  imperfect  ear, 
which  makes  it  difficult  for  me  to  reaHze  my  own 
defects.  Were  my  conversation  recorded  with 
phonetic  accuracy  in  a  stor}^,  my  mistakes  of 
speech  would  attract  attention.  Is  it  legitimate 
that  they  should  do  so?  It  is  possible  to  con- 
ceive instances  in  which  so  accurate  a  record 
might  be  within  the  story's  intent,  but  gener- 
ally it  is  an  irrelevant  and  unimportant  mat- 
ter. Specialists  in  phonetics  are  concerned  with 
such  matters.  The  story -writer  has  another 
purpose. 

But  let  us  take  an  extreme  case.  One  of  my 
characters  is  a  plantation  negro  who  speaks  a 
marked  dialect.  Shall  I  record  his  utterance 
accurately  or  shall  I  not?  Perhaps  I  should, 
first  of  all,  consider  my  audience.  If  these  are 
Southerners,  to  whom  this  dialect  is  familiar,  I 


DIALOGUE  i8i 

may  be  as  literal  as  I  please.  If  my  audience  is 
a  broader  one,  containing  those  unfamiliar  with 
the  dialect,  the  task  is  more  complicated.  To 
them  the  negro  dialect  is  a  strange  tongue,  known, 
if  at  all,  but  slightly,  and  they  must  puzzle  over 
much  of  it.  In  any  case  it  is  sufficiently  novel 
to  distract  them  from  the  story,  from  the  con- 
tent of  speech  to  a  mannerism.  If  the  story- 
action  is  of  importance,  its  effectiveness  is  im- 
paired thereby.  What  must  be  done?  Shall 
my  plantation  negro  be  made  to  speak  simple 
but  correct  English,  or  shall  I  modify  his  speech 
somewhat?  If  the  first,  his  speech  is  untrue  to 
reality;  if  the  second,  it  is  still  untrue,  but  in 
less  degree. 

Let  us,  for  argument,  select  the  second  half  of 
the  alternative,  and  endeavor  to  contrive  a  dia- 
lect neither  obscure  nor  bizarre,  but  sufficiently 
characteristic  to  differentiate  the  speaker  from 
the  other  persons  of  the  story.  How  must  we  go 
about  our  task?  The  more  difficult  obscurities 
must  be  modified,  and  but  few  mannerisms  re- 
tained, enough  to  suggest  the  nature  of  the  true 
speech,  to  give  it  flavor,  but  not  sufficient  to 
make  us  pause  as  we  read.  The  meaning  of  the 
words  should  be  apparent  at  a  glance,  so  that 
we  may  proceed  with  the  story  undeterred. 
Such  a  dialect  as  we  have  devised  must,  of  course, 
be  consistent  with  itself,  and  must  be  devoid  of 


i82  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

peculiarities  foreign  to  the  original  speech.  Our 
method  has  been  to  make  it  approximate  normal 
speech,  while  retaining  a  tincture  of  the  original. 
It  is  as  though  we  should  dilute  it  with  a  neu- 
tral element;  its  character  remains  the  same,  its 
potency  is  not  so  great. 

It  requires  few  and  slight  variations  from  the 
normal  to  produce  this  distinctive  quality  of 
dialect.  The  majority  of  writers  who  treat  of 
Scotch,  Irish,  or  negro  Hfe  err  on  the  side  of 
literalness.  What,  to  a  Scotchman,  is  simple 
and  intelligible  enough,  is  to  any  one  else  largely 
obscure.  Thus  we  have  the  so-called  "kail-yard 
school"  of  Scotch  realists.  Their  method  is  not 
that  of  Stevenson  or,  to  a  lesser  degree,  Scott, 
both  Scotchmen,  but  writers  not  for  their  coun- 
trymen alone.  That  the  story  should  be  intelli- 
gible to  his  readers  should  be  the  writer^s  chief 
concern.  If,  to  accomplish  this,  he  must  depart 
from  actuahty,  let  him  do  so.  His  story  is  not 
a  Uteral  transcript  from  hfe,  but  an  artificial 
rearrangement  of  Ufe. 

Yet  we  must  not  conclude  from  our  generaliza- 
tions thus  far  that  dialect  and  class  speech  are 
never  to  be  accurately  recorded  for  others  than 
those  to  whom  that  speech  is  famihar.  There 
are  stories  which  have  as  their  chief  purpose  to 
portray  background,  manners  of  Hfe,  and  speech. 
These  stories  are  seldom  of  the  first  rank,  and 


DIALOGUE  183 

bear  to  the  best  stories  about  the  relation  that 
a  good  photograph  bears  to  a  good  painting. 
Photographs,  however,  have  their  place  and  so, 
too,  these  Hteral  records  of  life.  Their  value  lies 
in  the  accuracy  of  the  observed  detail.  To  the 
reader  they  are  interesting  chiefly  by  reason 
of  their  novelty.  Nowadays  energetic,  though 
often  imoriginal,  writers  seek  out  the  less  known 
corners  of  the  earth  for  the  simple  purpose  of  ex- 
ploiting a  fresh  background.  But  stories  pos- 
sessed of  this  quality  alone  cannot  long  command 
a  hearing,  and  already  the  public  wearies  of  dia- 
lect, save,  perhaps,  as  a  device  for  the  creation 
of  humor.  Just  as  we  find  fantastic  dress  amus- 
ing and  the  habits  and  dress  of  foreigners,  so 
do  we  find  dialect  humorous.  We  do  not  speak 
as  these  people;  their  speech  being  unlike  ours  is, 
therefore,  absurd. 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  interesting  to  trace  in 
English  or  American  fiction  the  growth  of  literal- 
ness  in  recording  speech  pecuHarities.  We  have 
not  here  the  space  for  so  lengthy  an  examination. 
It  will  suffice  to  point  out  that  Washington 
Irving  and  Hawthorne  make  no  attempt  to 
catch  dialect,  with  perhaps  some  consequent  loss 
in  realism,  and  perhaps,  some  gain  in  unity  of 
impression.  The  negro  dialect  of  Poe  differs 
considerably  from  that  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris 
or  Thomas  Nelson  Page — these  last  it  seems  to 


i84  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

me  are  on  the  whole  too  painstakingly  accurate, 
and  are  rather  hard  to  read.  I  cite  two  examples 
of  Scotch  dialect,  the  first  from  Scott,  and  the 
second  from  Barrie.  Scott  seems  to  me  to  have 
retained  the  flavor  of  the  speech,  and  yet  to  have 
made  its  understanding  swift  and  easy.  B  arrie's 
is  closer  to  the  soil,  but  attracts  more  attention  to 
itself.  How  true  either  is  to  life  I  cannot  say. 
The  selection  from  Kipling  illustrates  the  possi- 
bilities of  humor  inherent  in  realistic  class  speech. 
Again,  just  how  true  to  life  this  may  be  I  do  not 
know,  nor  is  it  a  matter  of  any  importance: 

Sir  Robert  sat,  or,  I  should  say,  lay,  in  a  great 
arm-chair,  wi'  his  grand  velvet  gown,  and  his 
feet  on  a  cradle;  for  he  had  baith  gout  and  gravel, 
and  his  face  looked  as  gash  and  ghastly  as  Satan's. 
Major  Weir  sat  opposite  to  him,  in  a  red-laced 
coat,  and  the  laird's  wig  on  his  head;  and  aye 
as  Sir  Robert  girned  wi'  pain,  the  jackanape 
girned  too,  like  a  sheep's  head  between  a  pair  of 
tangs — an  ill-faur'd,  fearsome  couple  they  were. 
The  laird's  buff-coat  was  hung  on  a  pin  behind 
him,  and  his  broadsword  and  his  pistols  within 
reach;  for  he  keepit  up  the  auld  fashion  of  having 
the  weapons  ready,  and  a  horse  saddled  day  and 
night,  just  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  able  to 
loup  on  horseback,  and  away  after  ony  of  the 
hill-folk  he  could  get  speerings  of.  Some  said  it 
was  for  fear  of  the  Whigs  taking  vengeance,  but 
I  judge  it  was  just  his  auld  custom — he  wasna 
gien  to  fear  onything.    The  rental  book,  wi'  its 


DIALOGUE  185 

black  cover  and  brass  clasps,  was  lying  beside 
him;  and  a  book  of  sculduddery  sangs  was  put 
betwixt  the  leaves,  to  keep  it  open  at  the  place 
where  it  bore  evidence  against  the  goodman  of 
Primrose  Knowe,  as  behind  the  hand  with  his 
mails  and  duties.  Sir  Robert  gave  my  gudesire 
a  look,  as  if  he  would  have  withered  his  heart  in 
his  bosom.  Ye  maun  ken  he  had  a  way  of  bend- 
ing his  brows  that  men  saw  the  visible  mark  of 
a  horseshoe  in  his  forehead,  deep-dinted,  as  if  it 
had  been  stamped  there. — (Scott,  Wandering 
Willie's  Tale.) 

"Leeby  kent  perfectly  weel,"  Jess  has  said, 
*'*at  it  was  a  trial  to  Jamie  to  tak  her  ony  gait, 
an'  I  often  used  to  say  to  her  'at  I  wonder  at  her 
want  o'  pride  in  priggin'  wi'  him.  Aye,  but  if 
she  could  juist  get  a  promise  wrung  oot  o'  him, 
she  didna  care  hoo  muckle  she  had  to  prig. 
Syne  they  quarreled,  an'  ane  or  baith  o'  them 
grat  (cried)  afore  they  made  up.  I  mind  when 
Jamie  went  to  the  fishin'  Leeby  was  aye  terrible 
keen  to  go  wi'  him,  but  ye  see  he  couldna  be  seen 
gaen  through  the  toon  wi'  her.  *If  ye  let  me 
gang,'  she  said  to  him,  'I'll  no  seek  to  go  through 
the  toon  wi'  ye.  Na,  I'll  gang  roond  by  the 
roods  an'  you  can  tak  the  buryin'-ground  road, 
so  as  we  can  meet  on  the  hill.'  Yes,  Leeby  was 
wiUin'  to  agree  wi'  a'  that,  juist  to  get  gaen  wi' 
him.  I've  seen  lassies  makkin'  themsel's  sma' 
for  lads  often  enough,  but  I  never  saw  ane  'at 
prigged  so  muckle  wi'  her  ain  brother.  Na,  it's 
other  lassies'  brothers  they  like  as  a  rule." — 
(Barrie,  Leeby  and  Jamie.) 


i86  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"I^m  going  out  to  say  adoo  to  my  girl,"  said 
Lew  to  cap  the  climax.  "Don't  none  o'  you 
touch  my  kit  because  it's  wanted  for  active 
service,  me  bein'  specially  invited  to  go  by  the 
Colonel." 

He  strolled  forth  and  whistled  in  the  clump  of 
trees  at  the  back  of  the  Married  Quarters  till 
Cris  came  to  him,  and,  the  preliminary  kisses 
being  given  and  taken,  Lew  began  to  explain  the 
situation. 

"I'm  goin'  to  the  front  with  the  Reg'ment,"  he 
said  vaUantly. 

"Piggy,  you're  a  little  liar,"  said  Cris,  but  her 
heart  misgave  her,  for  Lew  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  l3dng. 

"Liar  yourself,  Cris,"  said  Lew,  slipping  an 
arm  round  her.  "I'm  goin'.  When  the  Reg'- 
ment marches  out  you'll  see  me  with  'em,  all 
galliant  and  gay.  Give  us  another  kiss,  Cris, 
on  the  strength  of  it." 

"If  you'd  on'y  a-stayed  at  the  Depot — where 
you  ought  to  ha'  been — you  could  get  as  many  of 
'em  as — as  you  dam  please,"  whimpered  Cris, 
putting  up  her  mouth. 

"It's  'ard,  Cris.  I  grant  you  it's  'ard.  But 
what's  a  man  to  do?  If  I'd  a-stayed  at  the 
Depot,  you  wouldn't  think  anything  of  me." 

"Like  as  not,  but  I'd  'ave  you  with  me,  Piggy. 
An'  all  the  thinkin'  in  the  world  isn't  like  kissin'." 

"An'  all  the  kissin'  in  the  world  isn't  like  'avin' 
a  medal  to  wear  on  the  front  of  your  coat." 

"  You  won't  get  no  medal." 

"Oh,  yus,  I  shall  though.  Me  an'  Jakin  are 
the  only  acting-drummers  that'll  be  took  along. 


DIALOGUE  187 

All  the  rest  is  full  men,  an'  we'll  get  our  medals 
with  them." 

"They  might  ha'  taken  anybody  but  you, 
Piggy.  You'll  get  killed — you're  so  venture- 
some. Stay  with  me,  Piggy  darlin',  down  at  the 
Depot,  an'  I'll  love  you  true  forever." — (Kipling, 
The  Drums  oj  the  Fore  and  Aft.) 

I  have  endeavored  to  make  clear  thus  far  that 
speech  in  stories  seldom  corresponds  literally 
with  the  speech  of  every  day.  It  is  selected  and 
improved — standardized.  Individual  and  class 
peculiarities  may,  to  be  sure,  be  suggested  to 
some  degree,  this  depending  upon  the  character 
of  the  story;  but  the  color  we  bestow  upon  the 
individual  utterance  is  seldom  more  than  a 
tincture  suggesting  the  human  original.  How 
far  this  standardization  may  be  carried  in  an  in- 
dividual instance  cannot,  of  course,  be  made  the 
theme  of  a  generalization.  It  is  worth  noting, 
however,  that  we  must  at  times  almost  com- 
pletely standardize  the  speech  of  our  characters, 
and  all  writers  might  resort  to  the  expedient 
more  frequently  than  they  do.  Consider  the  in- 
stance of  the  foreigner  speaking  his  native  tongue. 

What  must  be  the  writer's  method  when  the 
Grand  Duke  accosts  the  heroine  in  Russian? 
Give  the  exact  words  of  his  greeting?  This  is 
sometimes  inconvenient;  not  all  of  us  are  familiar 
with  Russian.    But  the  writer  knows  the  Duke's 


i88  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

thoughts,  and  may,  therefore,  translate  for  us. 
If  the  Grand  Duke  speaks  good  idiomatic  Russian 
there  is  no  reason  why  his  remarks  should  not  be 
rendered  in  idiomatic  English.  Too  often  the 
author  translates  idiom  literally,  thus  producing 
a  laughable  and  un-English  dialect.  Competent 
writers,  familiar  with  French  or  German,  are 
sometimes  guilty  of  such  a  practice  for  humorous 
purposes — a  humor  strictly  analogous  to  the 
misspellings  of  Josh  Billings.  The  truly  artistic 
writer,  however,  translates  into  simple,  idiotaatic 
English,  which  serves  easily  and  clearly  to  re- 
veal the  speaker's  thoughts.  Is  not  this  transla- 
tion of  a  foreign  tongue  analogous  to  the  trans- 
lation of  a  dialect  of  one's  own  tongue? 

In  the  employment  of  a  standardized  language 
as  common  to  characters  drawn  from  all  classes 
of  society  and  various  environments,  are  we  not, 
however,  losing  something  of  the  flavor  of  reality, 
the  true  quality  of  Hfe  as  we  experience  it? 
There  is  justice  in  such  a  demurrer.  Certainly 
it  would  be  unwise  to  dogmatize  overmuch,  for 
the  exceptions  to  the  rule  would  be  outstanding. 
We  must  make  clear  some  principle  upon  which 
to  base  our  practice;  and  this,  I  think,  has  been 
implicit,  if  not  explicit,  in  our  discussion:  the 
degree  of  literalness  advisable  in  the  speech  of 
story  characters  is  dependent  always  upon  the 
audience  and  the  aim  of  the  story.     The  audi- 


DIALOGUE  189 

ence  may,  or  may  not,  be  so  familiar  with  the 
form  of  speech  employed  as  to  grasp  its  content 
easily  and  wholly.  Further,  the  theme  of  the 
story  and  its  tone  must  determine  the  character 
of  the  speech.  If  the  writer  is  concerned  mostly 
with  manners,  with  external  and  superficial 
things,  the  form  of  speech  he  permits  his  char- 
acters may  be  as  near  that  of  reahty  as  he  sees 
fit  to  make  it.  The  more  his  story  concerns  it- 
self with  deep  and  universal  themes,  the  less 
should  the  manner  of  speech  distract  our  atten- 
tion from  these.  Contrast  is,  however,  always 
possible,  the  gravity  of  the  theme  contrasting 
with  the  inadequacy  of  the  speech,  and  gaining 
in  power  and  suggestion  thereby. 

After  all,  it  is  not  by  class  differences  in  speech 
that  we  chiefly  distinguish  the  servant  from  the 
capitalist.  The  difference  lies  in  the  attitude  of 
mind,  the  one  deferential  and  the  other  lordly; 
and  this  attitude  may  be  best  caught  not  by 
superficial  differences  in  word  and  intonation,  but 
by  the  thought  and  emotion  expressed.  The 
transportation  official  on  boat  or  railway  may 
speak  the  same  English  as  I,  but  his  spirit  is 
haughty  and  intolerant,  and  mine  is  humble 
before  him;  my  deference  is  shown  best  by  the 
stumbling  question  which  I  put  to  him,  his  dis- 
dain by  the  hard-clipt  reply.  There  is  here  a 
difference  in  attitude  and  phrasing,  though  none 


ipo  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

in  the  pronunciation  or  the  selection  of  words. 
It  is  a  more  vital  difference,  one  both  individual 
and  functional.  The  skilled  writer  can  convey 
a  man's  class  and  personality  in  a  phrase,  and 
this  in  nowise  peculiar  as  English.  A  single 
fine  example  occurs  to  me  from  Maupassant's 
The  Necklace.  The  husband  of  the  heroine  is 
given  to  remark  with  satisfaction  as  he  seats 
himself  at  dinner,  "Ah,  the  good  stew!"  Could 
any  phrase  be  more  enlightening?  We  conceive 
the  man  to  be  hopelessly  middle- class  and  un- 
aspiring, content  with  his  shabby  lot,  content 
with  his  home,  with  himself,  and  with  his  wife. 
He  is  both  an  individual  and  a  member  of  a 
class,  for  in  his  exclamation  he  reveals  both  un- 
mistakably. Immediately  we  understand  the 
irritation  of  his  ambitious  wife.  He  was  not  one 
to  be  caught  by  the  glamour  of  fashion!  Doubt- 
less this  is  a  striking  instance,  but  it  illustrates 
the  possibilities  of  suggestion  lying  within  com- 
mon speech,  speech  unmarked  with  dialect  or 
class  pecuUarities. 

The  Key  of  Dialogue 

It  is  but  a  step  from  the  foregoing  discussion 
to  what  Stevenson  calls  "the  key  of  dialogue," 
by  which  is  meant  the  tone  of  conversation — 
whether  it  be  base,  commonplace,  or  elevated, 
realistic  or  romantic,  tragic  or  in  the  vein   of 


DIALOGUE  191 

light  comedy.  Thus  in  Shakespeare  the  comic 
characters  speak  usually  in  prose  and  employ  the 
diction  appropriate  thereto.  Prince  Hal,  in  the 
earlier  scenes  with  Falstaff,  talks  the  language 
of  the  tavern;  later,  when  he  becomes  king,  his 
words  are  kingly.  Something  the  same  is  true 
of  a  story.  The  writer  endeavors  to  make  his 
dialogue  in  keeping  with  the  theme  of  his  story, 
and  this  appropriateness  involves  to  some  de- 
gree subject-matter,  and  to  a  greater  degree 
manner  of  speech. 

It  is  difficult  in  seeking  illustrations  of  subject- 
matter,  to  cite  instances  which  must  always  be 
in  point.  Conceivably  any  subject  may  be  a 
fitting  theme  of  discussion  in  some  story  or 
play.  In  the  plays  of  Brieux,  for  example, 
topics  are  discussed  which  are  usually  considered 
fit  only  for  medical  books.  Yet  in  these  plays 
we  do  not  feel  that  the  discussion  is  out  of  place; 
the  themes  are  essential  to  the  play,  and  the 
manner  of  their  discussion  is  such  as  to  provoke 
grave  interest.  Any  theme,  we  might  declare, 
will  serve  for  discussion  if  in  the  right  place. 
The  difficult  thing  is  to  determine  the  right  place. 
What  flagrant  offences  to  taste  may  be  committed 
in  story  and  drama  the  Hterature  of  the  day  at- 
tests. The  drama  in  particular  is  guilty.  It 
resorts  persistently  to  the  problem  of  sex  relar 
tionships;    yet  in  comedies  how  seldom  is  the 


192  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

subject  discussed  in  good  taste.  It  is  not  that 
the  relations  of  men  and  women,  married  and 
unmarried,  do  not  afford  capital  themes  for 
comedy,  but  there  are  many  graver  aspects 
which  may  be  approached  only  with  caution. 
A  false  turn  to  the  dialogue  and  the  result  is 
vulgarity,  not  humor. 

If  the  story  is  concerned  with  lofty  action  the 
hero  may  not  appropriately  speak  of  the  tooth- 
ache. Not  that  the  tooth-ache  is  a  thing  to  make 
light  of,  but  we  feel  that  it  is  essentially  trivial 
in  its  ultimate  significance,  whereas  many  a 
thing  seemingly  less  important  may  be  significant 
and  so  in  keeping.  Thus  a  bizarre  dream  may 
be  appropriate  for  discussion,  for  a  dream  is  to 
some  degree  significant  of  thought,  and  so,  it 
may  be,  prophetic  of  action  to  come.  Or  a 
point  of  etiquette  may  not  be  trivial,  for  manners 
may  indicate  character  or  signify  amiable  or 
hostile  intent.  In  short,  the  theme  of  conver- 
sation must  be  in  the  tone  of  the  story.  If  the 
story  is  light  and  trivial  it  may  not  deal  with  the 
problems  of  the  universe.  If  serious  or  tragic 
there  must  be  no  admission  of  trivial  or  petty 
subjects — save  perhaps  for  contrast,  and,  occa- 
sionally, pathos,  which  may  be  so  secured  at 
times.  This  is  no  more  than  to  say,  perhaps, 
that  the  writer  must  be  possessed  of  taste. 

Yet  life  is  notoriously  in  bad,  or  at  least  mixed^ 


DIALOGUE  193 

taste.  You  attend  a  funeral.  Your  mood  is  one 
of  grief;  your  thoughts  are  upon  conduct  and 
religion,  and  kindred  themes.  All  the  time  you 
are  conscious,  in  the  scene  about  you,  of  absurd 
and  incongruous  details.  The  accoutrements  of 
death,  the  absurd  hearse  with  its  plumes  and 
mock  curtains,  the  hideous  garb  of  mourning,  the 
attitudes  and  expression  of  those  in  grief — all 
these  clash  with  the  genuine  though  not  over- 
whelming emotion  which  you  feel.  Your  own 
personality  is  not  subject  altogether  to  its  domi- 
nant mood;  unconsciously  you  note  the  incon- 
gruities about  you,  and  your  mind  suggests 
humorous  possibilities  and  irrelevancies.  This 
is  true,  is  it  not,  unless  one  emotion  is  so  domi- 
nant as  to  exclude  all  else?  Life  is  mixed  of  all 
emotions  and  of  congruous  and  incongruous 
things. 

The  writer  improves  on  life  in  that  he  frees 
action  and  emotion,  and  so,  consequently,  speech, 
of  irrelevancies.  It  is  his  function  to  make  life 
congruous.  Therefore  must  his  characters  speak 
upon  topics  in  harmony  with  the  central  theme 
and  not  of  things  which  will  arouse  conflicting 
emotions.  The  writer  is  seeking  to  make  a  uni- 
fied impression,  and  so  he  takes  care  that  every- 
thing shall  contribute  to  that  impression,  no 
touch  suggesting  incongruous  associations  hostile 
to  his  aim.    He  may,  of  course,  wish  to  create  a 


194  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

mixed  impression  and  so  adopt  a  mixed  style. 
This  is  legitimate,  and  therein  lie  possibiUties  of 
contrast.  Usually,  however,  his  object  is  sim- 
pler, and  his  danger  that  of  incongruity.  He 
must  guard  against  themes  which  may  arouse 
in  the  reader  emotions  hostile  to  the  one  he 
seeks.  He  cannot,  of  course,  do  this  with  cer- 
tainty, for  some  of  his  readers  will  have  the  most 
imexpected  and  unconventional  emotions  asso- 
ciated with  common  objects.  Whereas  pine-trees 
are  usually  regarded  as  sombre  and  funereal, 
the  mention  of  them  may  evoke  in  some  the  ut- 
most hilarity.  Against  this  individual  variant 
there  h  no  defence,  but  the  writer  should  be 
sufficiently  wide-awake  to  the  associations  which 
various  topics  will  arouse  in  the  average  mind. 
Thus  Coleridge's  poem  upon  the  young  ass  has 
never  been  reverently  approached  by  the  major- 
ity of  readers. 

More  subtle  and  difficult  is  the  problem  of  the 
speech  itself.  Language,  besides  denoting  spe- 
cific thoughts,  is  a  tissue  of  connotations;  that  is, 
of  associated  meanings,  and  of  these  the  writer 
should  have  a  broad  and  accurate  knowledge. 
A  mere  range  of  vocabulary  does  not  make  a 
stylist.  He  must  know  the  current  values  of 
speech,  its  colloquial  and  slang  uses  as  well  as 
its  noble  and  its  poetic  implications.  No  writer 
can  afford  not  to  read  good  English,  nor,  I  believe 


DIALOGUE  195 

can  he  afford  not  to  know  colloquial  and  even 
bad  English.  All  are  but  forms  of  expression,  as 
both  viohn  and  jew's-harp  are  instruments  of 
music,  both  capable,  perhaps,  of  effective  em- 
ployment in  the  hands  of  Richard  Strauss.  But 
the  writer  must  know  very  accurately  what  is 
good  and  what  is  not,  what  is  slangy,  and  what 
is  colloquial  but  sound.  Thus  the  phrase  "to 
start  something"  means  in  slang  to  make  a  dis- 
turbance or  trouble,  though  in  their  natural 
state  the  words  have  no  such  idiomatic  meaning. 
A  careful  writer  would,  in  a  serious  passage, 
seek  to  avoid  this  form  of  words  in  its  literal 
meaning,  even  were  it  not  unfit  by  reason  of  its 
vagueness.  He  would  seek  at  some  inconve- 
nience to  find  an  adequate  substitute  happily  free 
from  incongruous  meanings  and  associations. 

This  is  a  trivial  instance,  but  typical  enough. 
Any  writer  who  wishes  a  command  of  his  native 
speech  must  master  such  values,  as  well  as  dis- 
tinctions more  elegant.  The  study  is  endless, 
for  the  values  of  speech  are  ever  changing.  His 
ear  must  be  trained  to  speech  as  that  of  the  musi- 
cian is  trained  to  gradations  of  tone,  for  upon  his 
nice  use  of  words  in  their  connotation  as  well  as 
their  denotation,  depends  the  tone  and  signif- 
icance of  every  utterance. 

The  classes  of  words  are  various  and  many.  We 
have  slangy  speech,  colloquial  speech,  localisms. 


196  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

dialects,  various  types  of  professional  speech, 
learned  words  and  popular  words,  poetic  words 
and  prosy  words.  And  the  problem  of  mastery 
is  made  more  difficult  in  that  many  words  be- 
long at  one  and  the  same  time  to  several  classes, 
and  in  combination  take  on  various  shades  of 
meaning.  What  Stevenson  doubtless  meant, 
when  he  declared  that  the  writer  must  pitch  his 
dialogue  to  a  certain  key,  was  not  only  that  he 
must  select  suitable  and  congruous  themes  for 
discussion,  but  that  he  must  select  his  words  to 
harmonize.  In  a  story  of  exalted  action  or 
poetic  theme,  slang  and  colloquialisms  are  out 
of  place.  In  a  story  of  quiet  reahsm  the  speech 
may  be  homely  and  colloquial.  Here  exagger- 
ated or  poetic  diction  would  be  as  much  out  of 
keeping  as  would  be  slang  in  the  first  instance. 

The  young  writer  is  as  prone  to  err  in  one 
direction  as  the  other.  In  his  simple  story  of 
rural  life  he  makes  his  characters  talk  as  do  the 
kings  of  Shakespeare;  in  his  fairy  tale  he  im- 
ports the  language  of  the  street.  The  remedy 
lies  in  reading,  in  training  the  ear  to  an  appre- 
ciation of  the  subtleties  of  speech.  Only  from  a 
knowledge  of  the  practice  of  the  best  writers  will 
he  be  able  to  select  words  which  are  harmonious 
and  appropriate  in  every  instance. 

Our  discussion  has,  it  seems,  transcended  the 
question  of  dialogue,  and  treated  of  diction  in 


DIALOGUE  197 

somewhat  broader  terms.  But  stories  are  not 
told  in  dialogue  alone.  The  writer  telling  the 
story  in  his  own  person  is  subject  to  the  same 
restrictions.  His  narrative  must  be  in  key  with 
the  speech  of  his  characters.  A  final  quotation 
from  Stevenson's  Letters  will  serve  by  way  of 
summary  to  emphasize  the  point: 

Yes,  honestly,  fiction  is  very  difficult;  it  is  a 
terrible  strain  to  carry  your  characters  all  the 
time.  And  the  difficulty  of  according  the  narra- 
tive and  the  dialogue  (in  a  work  of  the  third 
person)  is  extreme.  That  is  one  reason  out  of 
half  a  dozen  why  I  so  often  prefer  the  first.  It 
is  much  in  my  mind  just  now,  because  of  my 
last  work,  just  off  the  stocks  three  days  ago, 
The  Ehh  Tide:  a  dreadful,  grimy  business  in  the 
third  person,  where  the  strain  between  a  vilely 
realistic  dialogue  and  a  narrative  style  pitched 
about  (in  phrase)  "four  notes  higher"  than  it 
should  have  been  has  sown  my  head  with  grey 
hairs;  or  I  believe  so — if  my  head  escaped,  my 
heart  has  them. 


CHAPTER  X 
TYPES   OF  STORY  IDEAS 

Classification  of  story  themes  into  a  small 
but  inclusive  number  of  types  is  a  not  uncom- 
mon practice  in  books  upon  story  technic.  We 
have  stories  of  the  contest  of  man  with  man, 
of  man  with  fate,  and  similar  groupings  as  you 
please.  This  method  of  classification,  however, 
takes  no  account  of  the  thought  processes  in- 
herent in  the  creative  act.  A  more  profitable 
grouping  for  our  purposes  will  be  one  which  con- 
cerns itself  with  the  inception  of  the  story,  and 
the  method  of  story  development  by  which  the 
writer  realizes  his  intent.  Stories  so  classified 
fall  into  five  groups :  stories  of  action,  character, 
setting,  idea,  and  emotional  effect.  It  will  be 
possible,  I  think,  to  show  that  all  stories  fall  into 
one  or  another  of  these  divisions. 

Stories  of  action  constitute  the  greater  part  of 
all  stories,  both  long  and  short.  Thus  the  Odyssey, 
Grimm^s  Fairy  Tales,  The  Arabian  Nights,  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  the  novels  of  Dumas  and  Scott,  and 
short  stories  innumerable  are  narratives  of  action. 
198 


TYPES   OF   STORY  IDEAS         199 

That  IS  not  to  say  that  these  ignore  character  and 
setting,  nor,  again,  that  stories  of  other  types  are 
devoid  of  action.  It  is  a  question  of  emphasis, 
and  back  of  that,  the  story  inception.  Homer 
took  as  his  theme  the  wanderings  of  Ulysses; 
De  Foe  imagined  a  man  to  be  shipwrecked  on  a 
desert  island.  Kipling  in  The  Man  Who  Would 
Be  King  imagined  the  adventures  of  a  white  man 
who,  in  a  savage  corner  of  the  globe,  set  himself 
up  as  ruler.  In  each  instance  the  writer  was 
chiefly  interested  in  the  action,  and  sought  to 
develop  a  series  of  incidents  which  might  fittingly 
set  forth  the  action  theme  which  was  the  germ 
of  the  story.  To  this  end  all  other  interests  are 
subordinated,  and  it  is  with  the  action,  there- 
fore, that  the  reader  is  concerned. 

Let  us  examine  the  creative  process  more 
specifically.  I  desire  to  write  a  story  of  action 
and  am  seeking  a  fit  theme.  In  the  newspaper 
I  read  the  ancient  tale  of  the  young  woman  who 
flagged  the  train  just  short  of  the  broken  bridge; 
of  the  wealthy  yachtsman  who  has  fitted  out  an 
expedition  to  seek  the  buried  treasure  of  Captain 
Kydd;  of  the  suitor  who  disguised  himself  as  a 
footman  or  a  chauffeur  to  be  near  his  lady-love 
despite  parental  objection.  Or  I  may  imagine 
circumstances  equally  diverting:  the  story  of 
the  sheriff  who  pursues  Bad  Bill,  the  outlaw, 
and  traps  him  by  quaint  device  (this  yet  to  be 


200  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

invented).  Again,  a  story  of  quiet  action:  a 
young  man  falls  in  love  with  a  photograph  (an 
ancient  theme),  and  seeking  to  discover  the 
original  finds  her  to  be  a  girl  he  already  knows, 
but  whom,  in  the  photograph,  he  has  failed  to 
recognize.  The  themes  are  endless;  every  day 
we  have  innumerable  suggestions,  not  all  good, 
to  be  sure,  and  many,  like  those  suggested,  al- 
ready employed  a  hundred  times.  But  wherever 
I  find  my  theme,  my  interest  has  been  centred  in 
the  compHcation  of  the  story,  in  its  incidents, 
and  if  I  develop  it,  my  creative  act  consists  in 
elaborating  and  relating  the  action.  Only  inci- 
dentally do  I  create  character  and  imagine  an  ap- 
propriate background.  These  are  of  secondary 
importance  to  me,  and  will  be  so  to  my  readers, 
if  I  hold  a  just  emphasis  as  I  write. 

Suppose,  however,  my  story  has  its  inception 
in  character.  Here,  again,  the  idea  may  spring 
from  specific  observation  or  from  the  unaided 
imagination.  If  observation,  the  creative  proc- 
ess may  be  this:  in  Smith,  m^  neighbor,  I  am 
struck  by  an  extreme  conscientiousness.  He 
performs  his  every  duty  with  painstaking  thor- 
oughness. There  are  other  quaUties  in  Smith 
which,  for  my  purposes,  are  irrelevant.  He  is 
rather  forgetful,  and  has  neglected  to  repay  the 
three  dollars  he  once  borrowed  of  me;  and  I, 
knowing  his  sensitiveness,  will  never  remind  him. 


TYPES  OF  STORY  IDEAS         201 

For  my  story  Smith  is  a  man  with  the  one  domi- 
nant quality,  conscientiousness.  I  then  con- 
ceive a  man  resembling  Smith,  but  freed  of  his 
forge tfulness  and  other  distracting  traits.  Him 
I  place  in  a  situation  which  will  try  him  to  the 
utmost,  reveal  the  full  potentialities  of  his  char- 
acter in  the  one  direction.  It  may  be  that  life 
has  never  tried  the  real  Smith  in  such  fashion. 
In  my  story,  therefore,  I  present  my  creation 
with  a  conflict  of  choices,  let  us  say  one  of  love 
and  duty.  The  love  may  be  for  wife  or  child, 
the  situation  sufficiently  vital  that  if  he  follow 
the  dictates  of  his  conscience  his  love  must 
suffer  in  the  person  of  wife  or  son.  The  situation 
turns  upon  this  choice.  I  supply  any  one  of  a 
dozen  sets  of  circumstances  to  set  forth  the  con- 
flict. Smith  may  be  a  judge  on  the  bench,  and 
commit  his  son  to  prison ;  he  may  cause  his  wife's 
arrest  for  smuggling  laces  through  the  custom 
house.  The  incidents  are  of  secondary  impor- 
tance; my  object  is  to  reveal  the  soul  of  Smith. 
Thus  the  theme  of  my  story  has  been  character, 
and  I  have  sought  to  invent  circumstances  which 
will  reveal  character. 

This  is  the  method  followed  by  many  a  story 
writer.  Turgenieff,  for  instance,  has  a  story  en- 
titled A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  in  which  the  chief 
character  does  as  the  mad  king,  and  suffers  as 
he.    The  drcumstances  are  different,  of  course; 


202  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  whole  manner  of  life  and  the  setting  are 
totally  unlike  those  of  the  play.  Again,  Turge- 
nieff  writes  of  a  Russian  Hamlet,  a  man  of  dis- 
eased will.  The  procedure  is  this:  to  conceive 
an  interesting  character  and  then  to  reveal  that 
character  in  suitable  incidents  and  situations. 
The  reader  is  interested  in  the  action,  as  is  the 
author,  primarily  as  a  means  to  an  end,  not  as 
an  end  in  itself.  Stevenson's  Markheim,  already 
quoted  in  another  connection,  is  a  story  of  this 
type,*  his,  A  Lodging  for  the  Night  a  second. 
Examples  may  be  found  on  every  hand.  To 
mention  but  one  more,  already  discussed,  Mau- 
passant's The  Coward  is  an  excellent  illustration 
of  the  method.  But  though  the  examples  are 
obvious  enough,  it  is  well  to  remember  that  the 
writers  achieve  their  effects  only  by  a  rigid  ad- 
herence to  the  germinal  idea.  If,  in  a  story  of 
character,  the  action  should  assume  a  command- 
ing place  in  the  reader's  attention,  the  story 
would  be  less  effective.  As  character  portrayal 
is  the  goal,  all  else  must  be  subordinated  to  it. 
The  third  t3^e  of  story,  that  of  setting  or 
background,  is  not  so  common  as  the  story  of 
character  and  far  less  common  than  the  story 
of  action.  The  theme  has  its  origin  in  some 
such  manner  as  this.  As  I  ride  through  the 
East  End  of  London  toward  West  Ham  I  am 
•  It  may  also  be  classed  as  a  story  of  idea. 


TYPES  OF  STORY  IDEAS         203 

impressed  by  the  dreary  monotony  of  the  scene: 
the  endless  rows  of  brick  cottages,  ugly,  and 
fashioned  all  alike;  the  dusty  streets,  the  dearth 
of  trees  and  grass.  It  is  respectable  enough,  not 
a  slum,  but  depressingly  uniform  and,  seemingly, 
utterly  hopeless.  I  resolve  to  write  a  story  ex- 
pressive of  the  dreary  monotony  of  the  life  which 
must  be  lived  here.  However,  as  I  do  not  know 
English  life  accurately,  I  transfer  my  story  to  a 
similar  district  of  Chicago  with  which  I  am  more 
familiar.  And  I  endeavor  to  make  my  story 
express  what  the  setting  suggests  to  me.  I  select 
my  incidents  with  this  in  view,  rigidly  excluding 
such  as  are  not  in  keeping — those  cheerful,  gay, 
and  hopeful.  My  characters,  too,  must  harmo- 
nize. They  are  the  product  of  the  environment 
which  I  depict.  In  this  fashion  I  endeavor  to 
create  a  unity  of  impression  and  to  subordinate 
everything  to  the  background  so  that  my  reader, 
as  he  leaves  the  story,  will  carry  away,  as  his 
chief  impression,  a  visual  image  of  the  place  for 
which  I  have  interpreted  one  of  the  meanings. 

Yet  I  need  not  always  make  my  incidents  and 
characters  harmonize  with  the  scene,  for  there  is 
a  single  alternative.  It  may  be  that  life  in  the 
environment  I  have  selected  is  gay  and  hopeful, 
not  unlike  life  in  better-favored  surroundings — 
or  at  any  rate  I  may  imagine  it  to  be  so.  Then 
I  can  use  my  gray  setting  for  contrast,  a  back- 


204  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

ground  against  which  the  varicolored  tints  of 
life  appear  all  the  more  vivid.  Contrast  is  al- 
ways a  possible  alternative  to  uniformity. 

Our  illustration  may,  however,  be  misleading 
to  some.  Any  setting  which  prompts  a  story  im- 
pulse will  serve,  and  the  impulses  may  be  many 
and  utterly  diverse.  There  are  romantic  scenes 
calling  for  romantic  stories  to  do  them  justice; 
scenes  ideally  suited  to  tender  love  stories; 
scenes  which  suggest  mystery  and  horror;  and 
scenes  which  call  for  humorous  treatment  be- 
cause of  their  whimsicaHty  or  absurdity.  What- 
ever it  is  the  writer  may  feel,  his  obUgation  and 
method  are  clear;  he  must  devise  a  story  to  fit 
the  scene,  or,  as  an  alternative,  one  which  con- 
trasts sharply  with  it.  The  second  is  the  more 
difficult  to  do,  but  is  the  more  effective  if  done 
well.  0.  Henry,  in  some  of  his  excellent  stories, 
J  achieves  notable  effects  in  contrast,  a  theme  pa- 
thetic or  tragic  contrasting  with  bizarre  and  in- 
congruous surroundings. 

Of  stories  illustrative  of  setting,  two  or  three 
may  be  cited  in  conclusion.  Poe's  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher  would  seem  to  have  originated  in 
the  sight  of  some  old  and  melancholy  mansion 
falling  into  decay  which  prompts  the  author  to 
contrive  a  story  in  harmony  with  it,  and  ex- 
pressive of  it.  This,  at  least,  is  the  probable 
origin  of  the  story  if  we  may  judge  from  the 


TYPES  OF  STORY  IDEAS         205 

title,  the  descriptive  emphasis  upon  the  house, 
and  the  picture  which  haunts  the  reader  when 
the  story  is  done.  Of  Stevenson's  Merry  Men 
there  can  be  no  doubt,  for  the  author  remarks  in 
his  letters  that  the  story  was  written  to  convey 
a  sense  of  the  terror  of  the  sea  upon  a  wild  coast,* 
and  that  he  had  a  specific  place  in  mind  as  he 
wrote.  The  action  he  designed  to  harmonize 
with  and  express  the  scene.  Moreover,  it  is  the 
picture  of  the  place  which  he  wished  to  make 
memorable.  This  it  is  which  we  remember  when 
all  else  of  the  story  is  forgotten: 

**My  uncle  himself  is  not  the  story  as  I  see  it, 
only  the  leading  episode  of  that  story.  It's 
really  a  story  of  wrecks,  as  they  appear  to  the 
dweller  on  the  coast.     It's  a  view  of  the  sea." 

Conrad's  story.  Heart  of  Darkness,  previously 
mentioned,  is  also  an  excellent  example  of  this 
type. 

Yet  though  the  notable  examples  we  have  dis- 
cussed are  among  the  few  of  whose  origin  and 
intent  we  can  be  certain,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  place  has  more  than  a  little  to  do  with  the 
germination  of  many  a  story  to  be  classed  pri- 
marily as  one  of  character  or  action.     A  story 

*This,  again,  might  serve  to  classify  the  story  as  one  of 
emotional  efifect.  Undoubtedly  scene  and  emotion  go  hand 
in  hand  here,  not  to  be  divorced,  and  either  may  have  been 
the  prime  impulse. 


2o6  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

theme  may  lie  undeveloped  in  the  mind  for 
long  and  then  of  a  sudden  coalesce  with  some 
fitting  scene,  and  in  a  moment  a  story  is  created. 
Here  it  would  be  unsafe  to  declare  the  scene  a 
prime  cause  of  the  story,  but  that  it  was  vital  to 
the  act  of  creation  is  none  the  less  true.  Nor 
can  we  say  how  often  setting  is  present  in  the 
author's  mind  as  he  plans  the  action  of  his  story. 
Often  it  may  be  indefinite  and  yet  color  the 
story  and  determine  the  choice  and  nature  of  the 
incidents. 

Stories  of  idea,  a  fourth  classification,  are,  I 
believe,  of  growing  importance;  to  me  they  are 
the  most  interesting.  Let  us  see  how  such 
stories  originate.  They  are  the  result,  usually, 
of  the  author's  generalized  observations  of  life. 
From  his  experience  the  author  comes,  perhaps, 
to  the  conclusion  that  young  people,  unable  to 
understand  their  elders,  are  cruel  and  hard  in 
their  judgments  of  them.  This  is  not  a  novel 
idea,  but  it  is  none  the  less  powerful  if  to  the 
author  it  comes  afresh  and  with  individual  sig- 
nificance. About  it  he  frames  a  story  which  is 
to  set  forth  and  illustrate  his  theme.  The  story 
may  be  humorous  or  tragic  or  in  a  mixed  tone 
of  quiet  reaHsm.  The  incidents  may  be  many 
and  various,  for  innumerable  plots  might  be  de- 
signed, all  expressive  of  this  single  idea.  It  is 
with  the  theme  that  the  writer  is  most  concerned. 


TYPES   OF   STORY  IDEAS         207 

and  this  he  tries  to  express  not  in  so  many  words 
as  in  an  abstract  moral,  but  as  a  living  truth 
which  the  reader  will  phrase  for  himself  upon 
reading  the  story,  just  as  the  writer  appreciated 
it  from  his  observation  of  life. 

Innumerable  abstract  ideas  may  serve  as  story 
texts,  preferably  such  as  have  come  to  the  writer 
from  his  own  observation  of  life  though  not 
necessarily  so.  He  may,  for  instance,  take  the 
proverb  "honesty  is  the  best  policy"  and  write 
a  story  to  prove  or  to  disprove  the  thesis.  Or  he 
may  choose  Mark  Twain^s  "be  good  and  you'll 
be  lonesome,"  and  base  thereon  a  story  humorous 
or  tragic.  Nor  need  the  ideas  be  so  abstract  or 
generahzed.  It  is  possible  to  set  forth  in  story 
form,  that  in  the  city  one  loses  the  interest  in 
his  neighbor  which  is  characteristic  of  the  coun- 
try; that  in  the  country  one  does  not  appreciate, 
as  in  the  city,  the  sacrifice  of  selfish  interests  to 
the  commonweal.  The  possible  themes  are  in- 
finite, and  each  writer  will  select  those  which 
appeal  to  him  most  strongly,  which  seem  most 
true  and  significant.  Once  he  has  selected  his 
theme  he  invents  action  wherewith  to  set  it  forth, 
a  harmonious  setting,  and  suitable  characters. 
But  as  the  idea  was  the  inception  of  the  story  it 
will  dominate  his  selection  throughout,  for  he 
will  wish,  without  phrasing  it  in  so  many  words, 
to  make  it  apparent  to  the  reader,  and  so  will 


2o8  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

take  care  not  to  cloud  or  confuse  it  by  irrelevant 
or  contradictory  incidents  or  characters. 

Stories  of  this  type  are  innumerable,  and  I 
need  cite  few  to  illustrate  the  point.  Maupas- 
sant's Necklace  is  an  admirable  though  enig- 
matical example.  The  author's  purpose  was, 
I  take  it,  to  reveal  his  philosophy,  his  attitude 
to  life.  It  was  not  a  cheerful  philosophy,  one 
which  may  be  summarized  in  some  such  fashion 
as  this:  Hfe  is  senselessly  tragic,  filled  with  pain 
out  of  all  measure  with  its  desert.  It  is  a  spec- 
tacle to  afford  amusement  to  a  cynical  creator; 
or  perhaps  there  is  no  creator  and  all  is  unde- 
signed, a  mere  matter  of  chance,  pain  or  pleas- 
ure dispensed  haphazard.  This  seems  to  be  the 
philosophy  back  of  the  story  and  may,  definitely 
formulated,  have  guided  Maupassant  to  the  selec- 
tion of  appropriate  incident  for  its  expression. 
It  is  also  possible  that  some  incident  similar  to 
that  of  the  lost  necklace  may  have  come  within 
his  notice.  This  he  refashioned  and  shaped, 
guided  in  so  doing  by  the  philosophy  he  wished 
to  express.  It  is  unlikely  that  the  true  incident 
bore  a  close  resemblance  to  the  finished  story. 
It  is  equally  unlikely  that  Maupassant  worked 
intuitively.  His  purpose  was,  I  think,  very 
clear  to  him,  however  much  we  may  puzzle  over 
it  according  to  the  degree  of  our  understanding. 

Illustrations  of  idea  stories  more  obvious  and 


TYPES  OF  STORY  IDEAS         209 

less  open  to  dispute,  are  such  as  the  following: 
Hale's  The  Man  without  a  Country,  Hawthorne's 
The  Birthmark  and  The  Great  Stone  Face,  Poe's 
The  Purloined  Letter,  Stevenson's  Will  0'  the 
Mill  and  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  and  Kipling's 
Wireless.  Any  story  with  a  clearly  recognizable 
purpose  is,  of  course,  a  story  of  idea — generally 
not  a  good  one,  for  the  idea  should  be  so  merged 
with  action  that  our  interest  is  absorbed  in  the 
story  for  its  own  sake,  and  we  feel  as  we  read 
that  we  are  developing  unusual  powers  of  insight 
and  speculation.  An  idea  so  expressed  that  the 
reader  thinks  its  discovery  original  with  himself 
is  one  artistically  conveyed.  In  The  Necklace 
my  interpretation  may  not  coincide  with  yours, 
for  the  writer  would  deem  it  poor  art  to  be  too 
explicit.  But  both  your  idea  and  mine  doubtless 
passed  through  his  mind.  In  The  Man  without 
a  Country  the  idea,  or  in  this  case  the  moral,  is 
only  too  apparent,  and  the  story  therefore  fails 
somewhat  artistically.  It  was,  however,  a  story 
with  a  timely  purpose,  and  the  author  doubtless 
thought  that  it  was  well  to  be  explicit.  Had  it 
been  less  obvious  it  might  not  have  been  under- 
stood by  some  for  whom  it  was  intended. 

Stories  of  emotional  effect  constitute  our  fifth 
group.  I  have  been  somewhat  hesitant  of  mak- 
ing this  classification,  for  stories  of  this  type 
may,  with  but  a  slight  stretch  of  definition,  be 


2IO  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

classed  as  stories  of  idea.  Moreover,  all  stories 
aim  at  an  emotional  effect,  though  this  may  not 
be  the  sole  purpose  nor  inspire  the  story.*  How- 
ever, the  classification  is  based  on  no  less  an  au- 
thority than  Poe,  and  there  is,  too,  some  differ- 
ence in  creative  intent  and  in  method  between 
this  class  of  stories  and  stories  of  idea.  Poe's 
illustration  is  The  Raven,  a  poem  in  which  he 
sought  to  arouse  in  the  reader  an  appreciation  of 
beauty  tinged  with  sadness — the  mood,  that  is,  of 
gentle  melancholy.  He  therefore  chose  his  sub- 
ject, selected  his  incidents,  setting,  and  refrain,  all 
with  this  end  in  view.  A  similar  method  and 
intent  may  be  the  story  writer's.  His  initial  pur- 
pose may  be  merely  to  create  in  the  reader  an 
emotion  of  sentimental  content.  He  will  then 
select  subject-matter  which  seems  to  him  appro- 
priate: young  love,  spring-time,  innocence,  and 
trust;  or  domestic  happiness,  the  joy  of  children, 
and  the  simple  pleasures  of  home  life.  These  or 
similar  things  are  the  materials  from  which  he 
creates  plot  and  devises  characters  appropriate  to 
his  intended  effect:  the  creation  of  an  emotion 
such  as  he  himself  feels  as  he  writes. 

If  his  purpose  is  to  arouse  horror  and  fear,  his 

materials  may  be  night  and  superstition,  ghosts 

and  crimes — all  the  materials  which  create  in  the 

reader  a  fear  of  the  unknown.   Again,  his  mood 

*  See  chapter  XIII,  "  Unity  of  Tone." 


TYPES  OF  STORY  IDEAS         211 

may  be  ironically  humorous,  and  he  will  then 
select  incidents  which  will  reveal  the  foibles  and 
petty  shams  of  humanity,  the  gulf  between  reality 
and  pretence.  The  starting-point  for  the  story 
in  such  a  case  will  be  only  an  attitude  toward  life, 
or  a  dominant  emotion.  For  the  rest  the  creation 
of  the  story  will  be  a  matter  of  intelligent  selec- 
tion of  appropriate  incident,  a  scant  equipment, 
seemingly,  for  a  story  beginning.  In  practice 
the  author  is  seldom  so  self-conscious  and  de- 
liberate as  has  been  intimated.  Rather  his  atti- 
tude toward  hf e  leads  him  unconsciously  to  select 
themes  and  to  devise  situations  which  enable  him 
to  express  himself.  The  degree  of  consciousness 
must  vary  greatly  with  the  writer.  Poe  seems 
always  to  have  been  aware  of  what  he  was  doing, 
and  so  with  some  others,  the  best  artists  because 
the  most  deliberate.  Those  less  aware  of  their 
own  methods  will  prove  more  uneven  in  quality, 
for  not  being  definitely  conscious  of  their  purpose 
they  are  more  easily  led  astray,  beguiled  by  the 
imagination  to  the  selection  of  inappropriate  ele- 
ments. When  the  choice  is  happy  they  are,  per- 
haps, capable  of  better  work  than  the  deliberate 
artists,  for  they  give  less  the  cold  effect  of  de- 
signed artistry.  If  a  man  is  never  carried  away 
by  his  own  emotions  he  cannot  hope  always  to 
sway  his  readers.* 

♦  See  chapter  XIII,  "  Unity  of  Tone." 


212  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

It  may  be  hard  to  determine  with  certainty 
stories  which  originated  in  the  sole  design  of 
creating  an  emotional  effect.  Poe  imdoubtedly 
so  planned  various  of  his  tales  of  horror  and  mys- 
tery, The  Black  Cat  serving,  possibly,  as  an  ex- 
ample. Stevenson  may  sometimes  have  been  so 
guided,  as  in  The  Suicide  Club  or  The  Body- 
Snatcher.  Maupassant,  in  Moonlight^  was,  I 
think,  similarly  guided.  The  title  would  seem 
to  indicate  that  he  deliberately  contrived  a 
story  expressive  of  the  beauty  and  romance  of 
a  moonlight  night.  This  may,  of  course,  be 
considered  a  story  illustrative  of  setting.  A 
further  discussion  of  the  place  held  by  emo- 
tional purpose  in  story-construction  will  be 
found  in  the  chapter  on  ''Unity  of  Tone.'* 
What  we  have  here  set  forth  will  suffice  for 
the  moment. 

Let  us  summarize  to  this  point:  stories  may 
originate  in  action,  character,  scene,  idea,  or  emo- 
tion. Whatever  may  be  the  germinal  impulse, 
the  story  should,  in  its  development,  seek  to  make 
that  impulse  clear  by  subordinating  all  else  to  its 
expression  and  so  transforming  intention  to  ef- 
fect. A  story  of  action  should  interest  by  reason 
of  its  incidents  and  complications;  a  story  of 
character  by  its  revelations  of  personality;  and 
so  with  the  other  forms.  Strength  and  effective- 
ness are  dependent  in  large  part  upon  the  elimi- 


TYPES  OF  STORY  IDEAS         213 

nation  of  whatever  is  not  germane  to  the  writer's 
immediate  purpose.  It  is  then  necessary  that  he 
know  what  that  purpose  is  and  make  everything 
in  his  story  conform  to  it. 


CHAPTER  XI 
TITLES  AND  NAMES 

An  appropriate  and  attractive  title  has  no 
little  to  do  with  the  effectiveness  of  a  story.  In 
recollection,  story  and  title  are  so  associated  as 
scarcely  to  be  thought  of  apart.  This  being  so,  a 
title  is  not  to  be  selected  lightly;  we  may  say,  in- 
deed, that  a  good  story  can  have  but  one  effective 
and  suitable  title.  No  second  choice  would  be  so 
good,  as  a  synonym  is  never  so  effective  as  the 
one  right  word  in  style.  But  as  titles  are  of  all 
sorts  and  conditions,  we  must  review  some  of 
them  to  decide  upon  the  principles  which  deter- 
mine an  appropriate  selection. 

There  is,  first  of  all,  the  title  drawn  from  the 
name  of  the  chief  character:  Guy  Mannering^ 
Daniel  Deronda,  Adam  Bede,  Lorna  Doone,  Jane 
Eyre,  Tom  J  ones ,  and  a  host  of  novels;  of  short 
stories,  Markheim,  Ligeia,  Colonel  StarboUle,  Mar- 
jory Daw,  Phoebe,  Marse  Chan,  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
and  many  more.  Short  stories  do  not  so  often 
take  their  titles  from  the  names  of  characters  as 
do  long,  and  the  reason  is  apparent.  Whereas  a 
214 


TITLES  AND  NAMES  215 

novel  may  concern  itself  with  the  development 
of  a  personality  and  thus  appropriately  derive  its 
title,  a  short  story,  attempting  less,  usually  can- 
not with  a  just  signification  take  a  single  name  as 
descriptive  of  its  theme.  The  name  would  often 
imply  too  much;  the  story  does  not  attempt  to 
develop  all  of  a  character  but  to  set  forth  a  situa- 
tion in  the  life  of  that  character. 

A  character  title  is  simple  and  unpretentious; 
it  is  also  short;  and  these  are  virtues.  It  is  not, 
however,  highly  interesting  in  itself  alone,  nor 
does  it  arouse  curiosity.  Once  the  story  is  read 
the  title  may  seem  imbued  with  meaning;  then  it 
has  value.  But  unless  the  name  is  peculiar  or 
arresting,  as  Oliver  Twist  or  Martin  Chuzzlewit, 
it  does  not  provoke  interest.  In  a  short  story, 
therefore,  the  name  is  more  often  qualified  and  a 
situation  involving  the  character  is  suggested. 
Thus  we  have  The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris, 
The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney,  Tod^s 
Amendment,  The  Madness  of  Phillip,  and  the  like. 
Such  titles  are  more  specific  and  limited  than 
name  alone.  They  suggest  something  of  the 
nature  of  the  story. 

Names  of  place,  if  the  story  is  most  concerned 
with  setting,  are  often  appropriate  as  titles.  Thus 
of  novels:  Bleak  House,  The  House  of  Seven  Ga- 
bles, The  House  on  the  Marsh,  The  House  with  the 
Green  Shutters,  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  Middle- 


2i6  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

march,  Cranford,  The  Garden  of  Allah,  A  Window 
in  Thrums — to  mention  but  a  few.  Of  short 
stories  it  is  not  easy  to  recall  notable  titles  of 
place,  but  a  few  will  suffice:  The  Merry  Men  (the 
reference  is  to  the  waves  so  named  breaking  on 
the  reefs),  In  the  House  of  Suddhoo,  The  Fall  oj 
the  House  of  Usher,  La  Grande  Breteche,  The  Great 
Stone  Face,  The  Beach  of  Falesd.  As  in  the  case 
of  titles  drawn  from  characters,  these  are  mem- 
orable if  the  place  is  truly  conspicuous  in  the 
story.  They  arouse  curiosity  only  if  unusual  or 
suggestive  and  seldom  afford  a  clear  clew  to  the 
story. 

Names  of  character  and  place  may  be  com- 
bined in  a  title:  Hamlet  of  Shshtchigry  County, 
The  Venus  of  Hie,  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes — in  all 
these  the  nature  of  the  story  is  more  or  less  clearly 
suggested  and  the  title  is  in  part  literary  and 
allusive.  Others:  King  Solomon  of  Kentucky, 
The  Sire  de  Maletroit^s  Door,  Will  6*  the  Mill, 
Rose  of  Dutcher^s  Cooley.  In  these,  presumably, 
character  and  place  could  not  easily  be  dissoci- 
ated in  the  author's  mind,  or  merely,  the  name  of 
the  place  was  thought  to  give  the  title  a  touch  of 
picturesqueness.  It  is  not  a  class  which  need 
detain  us  long. 

Titles  such  as  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  are,  as  was 
suggested,  rather  more  than  compounds  of  name 
and  place.    They  suggest  through  allusion  some- 


TITLES  AND  NAMES  217 

thing  of  the  nature  of  the  story.  The  best  titles, 
that  is,  most  suggestive  and  memorable,  are,  per- 
haps, those  which  tell  something  of  the  story. 
How  much  the  title  may  safely  tell  we  shall  con- 
sider later.  We  should  first  discuss  some  of  the 
means  whereby  the  theme  is  suggested. 

A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  is  a  literary  title  the  sig- 
nificance of  which  is  bound  up  with  the  associa- 
tions which  surround  the  Lear  story.  There  are 
many  such  titles  in  English  literature.  Vanity 
Fair  recalls  Pilgrim'' s  Progress;  Red  Pottage  is 
Biblical;  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  is  from  Shake- 
speare; Baa  Baa  Black  Sheep  and  Georgie  Por- 
gie  are  from  Mother  Goose;  The  Lie  Absolute 
and  Rosemary  for  Remembrance  are  from  Shake- 
speare; The  Lotos-Eaters,  Tennyson;  Bread  Upon 
the  Waters,  Such  as  Walk  in  Darkness,  and  With- 
out Benefit  of  Clergy  are  among  others  of  this  large 
class.  The  merit  of  these  is  that  they  are  sug- 
gestive; the  story  is  enriched  by  the  literary  asso- 
ciations which  cling  to  the  passage  in  literature 
from  which  the  title  is  drawn.  The  story's 
theme  is,  too,  more  or  less  clearly  indicated  in  so 
far  as  the  literary  application  is  not  far-fetched. 
A  title  which  inappropriately  draws  upon  litera- 
ture for  a  false  atmosphere  is,  however,  insipid  by 
reason  of  the  pretence. 

Stories  may,  in  their  titles,  tell  much  or  little  of 
the  story  in  ways  other  than  allusive :  The  Story 


2i8  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

of  a  Lie,  The  Taking  of  the  Redoubt,  In  Each 
Other^s  Shoes,  The  Phonograph  and  the  Graft, 
Peter  Rugg,  the  Missing  Man,  The  Attack  on  the 
Mill,  The  Adventures  of  a  New  Yearns  Eve,  Chris- 
tian Gellerfs  Last  Christmas,  The  Unfaithful 
Lover,  A  Derelict,  Youth,  The  End  of  the  Tether,  A 
Good-for-Nothing,  The  Man  without  a  Country, 
The  Man  Who  Was,  The  Man  Who  Would  Be 
King,  The  Purloined  Letter — all  these  tell  some- 
thing of  the  story,  some  Httle,  some  much;  they 
seek  to  express  the  theme  of  the  story,  to  catch 
the  gist  of  it  in  a  phrase.  There  is  no  question 
that  they  are  appropriate;  but  it  is  certain  also 
that  they  are  of  uneven  merit. 

The  less  excellent,  such  as  The  Adventures  of  a 
New  Year's  Eve,  apparently  tell  too  much.  The 
reader  turns  to  a  story  if  his  curiosity  has  been 
piqued  by  the  title,  but  is  uninterested  if  told  too 
much.  Such  a  title  as  The  Man  Who  Was  is, 
however,  provocative  of  curiosity.  Something 
of  the  story's  theme  is  surmised,  but  only  enough 
to  prompt  a  reading  that  the  guess  may  be  veri- 
fied. The  Man  without  a  Country,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  explicit,  but  is  so  surprising  in  itself  that 
we  wish  to  discover  the  explanation,  and  there- 
fore read  the  story.  So,  too,  with  TJte  Suicide 
Club.  The  title  is  explicit,  but  serves,  none  the 
less,  to  arouse  curiosity.  We  may  generalize 
thus  much:  a  good  title,  though  accurate  in  its 


TITLES  AND  NAMES  219 

definition  of  the  story's  theme,  is  so  phrased  as 
to  excite  attention  and  curiosity.  If  it  were  no 
more  than  a  label  for  goods,  the  writer  only  a 
shopman,  it  would  be  well  to  provide  an  attract- 
ive announcement  for  the  stimulation  of  trade. 
And  even  though  the  story  prove  not  so  interest- 
ling  as  the  name  implies,  the  reader  will  forgive 
the  deception  by  reason  of  his  anticipatory  thrill 
— though  I  do  remember,  as  a  boy,  being  much 
misled  by  a  novel  entitled  Slings  and  Arrows, 
which,  to  my  huge  disappointment,  had  nothing 
to  do  with  battles. 

Titles  of  name  and  place  or  those  which  define 
the  story  theme  are  not,  however,  all.  There  is 
at  least  one  other  class  of  importance,  and  in  this 
are  to  be  found  some  of  the  most  effective  titles 
in  literature.  They  do  not  label  the  theme  ab- 
stractly, but  instead  name  some  specific  object 
around  which  the  story  centres.  They  are  prob- 
ably most  effective  in  retrospect,  for  the  story 
must  be  read  to  invest  them  with  meaning;  but 
they  are  forever  memorable.  The  Necklace,  The 
Scarlet  Letter,  The  Moonstone,  The  Black  Pearl, 
The  Piece  of  String,  The  Monkeys  Paw,  The  Gold 
Bug — the  stories  which  these  suggest  come  viv- 
idly to  mind  as  one  reads  the  list.  It  is  hard  to 
believe  that  they  had  not  always  this  significance; 
yet  though  sufficiently  inviting,  they  cannot  have 
exerted  so  powerful  a  hold  upon  the  imagination 


220  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

when  the  story  was  yet  to  read  as  now  in  retro- 
spect.    Durability  is  their  great  virtue. 

There  is  an  excellent  reason  for  the  success  of 
titles  such  as  these.  Literature,  though  it  deals 
with  ideas  and  emotions,  is  best  when  it  is  con- 
crete rather  than  abstract.  Maupassant's  theme 
in  The  Necklace  may  be  the  irony  of  chance; 
but  his  philosophy  is  not  abstractly  put;  it  is 
told  in  terms  of  human  experience;  its  substance 
is  the  concrete  fact  of  Hfe.  The  tragedy  of  The 
Necklace  is  summed  up  in  the  jewel  itself — which 
was  paste.  Therefore  the  story's  title  is  doubly 
effective  in  that  it  recalls  something  which  ap- 
peals to  the  senses  of  touch  and  vision,  and  which 
also  symbolizes  the  idea  of  the  story.  So,  too, 
with  The  Scarlet  Letter,  most  admirable  title. 
The  glowing  symbol  of  Hester's  sin  is  the  best 
possible  device  wherewith  to  label  the  story. 
The  Scarlet  Letter,  moreover,  is  highly  provoca- 
tive of  curiosity. 

Concrete  titles,  names  of  objects,  are,  then, 
possessed  of  a  double  appeal.  When  they  are 
both  suggestive  and  inviting  they  would  seem  to 
meet  all  requirements  of  a  perfect  title.  But  we 
must  not  conclude  that  all  good  titles  are  of  this 
class.  Kipling's  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy,  with 
its  neat  misuse  of  a  phrase,  is  both  inviting  and 
memorable.  So,  too,  is  the  title  They  of  what  is, 
perhaps,  ELipling's  masterpiece  of  suggestion.     It 


TITLES  AND  NAMES  221 

is  a  puzzling,  enigmatical  title,  one  which  com- 
mands a  reading  of  the  story.  In  retrospect  it 
seems  highly  appropriate,  nor  can  it  ever  be  for- 
gotten. There  must  be  individual  preferences  in 
titles  as  in  stories.  Each  one  of  us  recalls  this 
one  or  that — The  Scarlet  Letter,  The  Lady  or  the 
Tiger,  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  They,  The  Gold 
Bug — which  has  for  some  reason  impressed  him 
as  appropriate  and  effective.  Yet  any  selected 
will,  I  think,  possess  one  or  more  of  the  desirable 
qualities  of  which  we  have  spoken.  And  all, 
without  exception,  will  be  short.  The  day  of  the 
long  and  double  title  is  past.  Seldom  more  than 
five  words  are  permissible,  and  four  or  three  are 
yet  better.  Many  notable  titles  are  of  but  one 
or  two.  The  practice  permits,  seemingly,  of  few 
or  no  exceptions. 

It  may  be  well  before  we  leave  the  subject  to 
note  the  titles  of  some  of  the  fairy  tales  which 
have  persisted  for  generations.  The  fairy  story, 
we  observed  at  the  outset  of  our  study,  was  wor- 
thy of  careful  examination,  for  a  story  which  sur- 
vives generations  of  oral  tradition  is  pretty  sure 
to  be  effective  and  polished  narrative.  The 
titles,  too,  must  have  been  worn  smooth  of  all 
superfluities.  They  have,  perhaps,  even  changed 
and  but  the  best  survived.  There  are  such  as 
Cinderella  or  the  Crystal  Slipper — sometimes 
either  singly,  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk,  Snow-White, 


v^ 


222  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Blue-Beard,  Beauty  and  the  Beast y  Sleeping  Beauty, 
The  Babes  in  the  Wood — all  are  memorable  and 
arresting;  all  are  short. 

Names  of  Characters 

In  the  novels  and  plays  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  and  even  later,  it  was  cus- 
tomary to  designate  the  dominant  attribute  of 
the  story's  characters  by  means  of  the  name 
chosen.  There  are  such  as  Mr.  Worldly  Wise- 
man, Allworthy,  Squire  Western,  Mrs.  Milla- 
mant,  and  Snake.  These  are  too  obvious  for  our 
modern  taste,  and  the  custom  has  pretty  well 
dropped  in  literature.  Yet  Dickens,  Meredith, 
and  Hardy  at  times  employ  modifications  of  the 
device,  and  Dickens  often  closely  approaches  his 
predecessors  of  the  early  days  of  the  novel.  The 
Cheeryble  brothers  suggest  only  too  openly  gen- 
tlemen of  a  cheery  disposition.  Meredith,  too,  in 
The  Egoist,  sees  fit  to  call  his  hero  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne,  a  name  clearly  indicative  of  character. 
Hardy  selects  for  one  of  his  rustics  such  a  name 
as  Gabriel  Oake. 

Names  may  undoubtedly  be  made  highly  indic- 
ative of  character  without  too  openly  defining  it. 
Dickens,  who  is  at  times  too  obvious,  is  also 
often  inimitably  successful.  Mr.  Micawber  is  an 
ideal  name  for  an  erratic  and  humorous  charac- 
v/   ter.    Nicholas  Nickleby  seems  in  keeping  with 


TITLES  AND  NAMES  223 

the  energetic  and  care-free  nature  of  that  young 
man;  and  Silas  Wegg,  Uriah  Heep,  Mr,  Peck- 
sniff, Sairey  Gamp,  Samuel  Weller,  and  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, though  uneven  in  quality,  are  all  excellent. 
Why  is  it  that  a  name  seems  appropriate?  Do 
the  qualities  of  character  as  revealed  in  the  story 
so  color  it  that  for  this  reason  alone  it  seems  sig- 
nificant?    Or  is  there  a  subtler  reason? 

As  an  extreme  instance  of  an  artfully  contrived 
name,  let  us  examine  Poe's  Ligeia.  The  sound  of 
it  is  suggestive  of  grief  and  sadness.  This  is  due 
to  the  associations  which  cluster  about  the 
sounds  of  which  it  is  composed,  for  Ligeia  is  but 
a  rearrangement  of  the  letters  which  compose 
^* elegy."  The  associations  of  this  word  uncon- 
sciously surround  the  name  Ligeia  and  give  it 
color.  Certain  sounds,  singly  or  in  combination, 
are  humorous  in  their  connotation.  Thus  "  q," 
perhaps  because  of  its  association  with  "queer," 
suggests  something  odd.  A  few  of  my  readers 
may  recall  a  once-noted  book  entitled  Queechy. 
It  is  a  beautifully  absurd  name,  suggestive  of  wet 
weather  and  goloshes.  But  though  the  heroine, 
Queechy,  was  much  given  to  tears,  the  author  did 
not,  I  fancy,  intend  the  suggestion. 

The  associations  of  sounds  and  their  power  of 
suggestion  usually  elude  exact  analysis.  Certain 
combinations  of  letters  are  absurd,  others  digni- 
fied, and  yet  others  poetic.    A  sensitive  ear  de- 


224  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

tects  the  suggestion,  even  though  it  cannot  define 
it.  The  careful  author,  aUve  to  this  fact,  seeks 
names  which  harmonize  with  his  characters;  the 
less  obvious  the  harmony,  the  better,  if  the  effect 
be  gained.  Dickens  possessed  an  ear  usually 
trustworthy  and  sought  the  desired  name  until 
he  found  it. 

Aside  from  the  less  definable,  suggestive  power 
of  sounds,  are  associations  less  difficult  to  grasp. 
I  once  read  a  story  of  which  the  heroine  was 
named  Miss  Dill,  unhappily  suggestive  of  pickles. 
A  tragic  or  grave  tone  would  be  difficult  to 
maintain  were  the  hero  named  Juggins  or  Tootle. 
These,  appropriate  to  farce-comedy,  are,  because 
of  their  associations,  for  some  reason  absurd. 
Names  subtly  appropriate  to  character  may,  in- 
deed, not  be  demanded  of  every  story,  though 
never  amiss;  but  the  author  should  seek  to  render 
them  at  least  innocuous,  and  in  so  far  as  possible 
devoid  of  incongruous  associations. 

That  names  in  sound  and  suggestion  should 
harmonize  with  the  characters  and  the  story 
theme  is,  however,  but  the  half  of  the  obligation. 
Names  are  much  more  than  individual  appel- 
lations; they  are  indicative  of  race  and  class. 
Schmidt,  Ryan,  and  Sobieski,  Warren,  Lee,  and 
Alden  are  names  of  racial  and  sectional  import. 
Silas  Lapham  is  appropriate  to  a  Yankee  of  long 
descent,  and  either  close  to  the  soil  or  but  a  sin- 


TITLES  AND  NAMES  225 

gle  remove  from  it.  Clara  Middleton  and  Eliza- 
beth Bennett  are  names  appropriate  to  middle- 
class  heroines.  Lovelace  suggests  the  cavalier, 
and  is  suited  either  to  a  villain  or  a  hero.  Maggie 
TuUiver  is  a  name  applicable  to  a  rustic  maiden 
of  the  lower  middle  class. 

Given  names,  as  well  as  surnames,  are  rich  in 
suggestive  quahties  by  reason  of  characters  in 
real  life  and  in  fiction  with  which  these  names  are 
associated.  Dorcas  and  Priscilla  suggest  modest 
maidens  of  Puritan  origin.  Mary  is  a  name  denot- 
ing virtue  and  honesty,  as,  too,  is  John.  Claude 
and  Percival  suggest  to  me  erratic  and  unreli- 
able characters.  Muriel,  Gwendolyn,  and  Gladys 
are  appropriate  to  fashionable  maidens  of  the 
British  aristocracy.  Oliver,  Henry,  Susan,  and 
Ruth  are  names  which  I  associate  with  solid  char- 
acters, devoid  of  affectation.  It  is  certain  that 
names  are  colored  for  each  of  us  by  our  individual 
associations,  and  it  is  hkewise  true  that  we  know 
many  a  man  and  woman  inappropriately  named. 
Parents  are  unreliable  in  these  matters,  and  too 
often  afSict  commonplace  offspring  with  fanciful 
names.  Nevertheless,  there  is  some  common 
basis  of  consent  as  to  the  significance  of  many 
names,  and  this  the  writer  should  take  into  ac- 
count as  he  labels  his  characters. 

Perhaps  it  is  fear  of  the  danger  which  waits 
upon  unusual  names  that  leads  many  present-day 


226  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

writers  to  employ  them  sparingly.  Neutral 
names  take  on  the  characteristics  with  which  the 
writer  endows  his  creations  and  are,  therefore, 
safe.  Kipling  and  others  not  infrequently  en- 
dow the  heroes  of  romantic  stories  with  prosaic 
names,  achieving  thereby 'an  effect  of  greater 
credibihty  and  realism.  When  Thomas  Smith 
meets  romantic  experiences  we  are  inclined  to  be- 
lieve them  true.  Note  that  in  Without  Benefit 
of  Clergy  the  hero  is  named,  prosaically,  John 
Holden.  The  girl,  however,  is  named  Ameera, 
which,  whatever  its  Oriental  significance,  to 
Western  ears  suggests  love. 

We  cannot,  therefore,  lay  down  any  hard-and- 
fast  principles  in  this  matter  of  nomenclature. 
It  will  suffice  to  point  out  that  names  convey  dim 
suggestions  of  character,  and  arouse  congruous 
or  incongruous  associations  by  reason  of  the 
soimds  of  which  they  are  composed.  Given 
names,  too,  are  enriched  by  associations,  these 
varying  with  the  individual  experience.  The 
careful  writer  bears  these  points  in  mind  as  he 
seeks  names  appropriate  to  his  creations,  seek- 
ing at  least  to  avoid  the  incongruous. 


CHAPTER  XII 
SUGGESTION   AND   RESTRAINT 

It  is  a  limitation  of  painting  and  sculpture,  as 
static  arts,  that  they  cannot  portray  motion. 
They  can,  however,  suggest  it;  for,  as  Rodin 
points  out,  a  statue  may,  in  its  pose,  combine 
two  successive  attitudes  and  thus  suggest  the 
transition  from  the  one  to  the  other  which  we  call 
motion.  Great  sculpture,  though  fashioned  of 
inert  stone,  may  in  this  way  be  suggestive  of  life 
and  movement;  and  a  great  picture  may  do  as 
much.  Were  one  to  turn  his  eyes  away  for  an  in- 
stant the  statue  or  portrait  might,  one  believes, 
in  that  moment  of  inattention  alter  its  pose. 

Literature,  too,  is  subject  to  limitations  which 
are  also  its  opportunities  for  effective  artistry. 
It  is  a  temporal  art,  moving,  that  is  to  say,  in 
time,  as  does  music.  Unlike  painting,  it  cannot 
set  before  us  as  a  single  impressicm  a  number  of 
persons  and  objects  in  relation  one  to  another. 
This  we  have  seen  to  be  one  of  the  difficulties 
which  description  has  to  evade.  Moreover,  if  the 
story  is  short,  one  of  but  a  few  thousand  words, 
227 


228  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

it  can  set  forth  only  a  lunited  number  of  charac- 
ters and  incidents  and  these  so  swiftly  that  but 
little  elaboration  is  possible.  That  careful  selec- 
tion may  overcome  the  difficulty  somewhat  has 
been  shown  in  preceding  chapters;  economy  of 
action,  speech,  time,  and  place  may  do  much  in 
little  to  suggest  the  complexity  and  richness  of 
Hfe. 

We  should  do  well  at  this  point  to  sum  up  what 
we  have  learned  thus  far  and  to  develop  certain 
associated  principles.  For  convenience  we  will 
treat  of  suggestion  first  as  a  group  of  mechanical 
devices  designed  for  swift  effects,  and,  second,  as 
an  artistic  principle  of  wider  implications.  So  to 
divide  the  subject  is  arbitrary,  but  the  gain  to 
clearness  will  justify  the  method. 

We  must,  first  of  all,  define  what  we  mean  by 
suggestion:  it  is  an  invitation  to  the  reader  to 
^  collaborate  in  the  creation  of  the  story.  Art  is 
two-sided,  needing  one  to  make  and  the  other  to 
appreciate;  one  to  write  and  the  other  to  under- 
stand. The  writer  seeks,  by  whatsoever  means 
he  may,  to  enlist  the  activities  of  the  reader  in  his 
behalf.  These  activities  are  of  the  imagination 
based  upon  experience.  The  reader  devoid  of 
imagination  can  understand  only  the  most  ob- 
vious writing.  The  reader  lacking  in  experience 
cannot  supply  all  that  the  writer  requires,  as  a 
child  must  fail  to  understand  the  true  relations  of 


SUGGESTION  AND  RESTRAINT     229 

men  and  women.  An  appeal  to  experience  and 
imagination  is,  then,  what  is  meant  by  the  term 
"suggestion.'* 

Intensification  by  Suggestion 

In  its  more  mechanical  aspects  suggestion  de- 
mands that  the  writer  be  no  more  explicit  than  is 
compatible  with  clearness.  If  a  hint  is  enough,  a 
full  statement  is  superfluous  and  serves  but  to 
bore  the  reader.  This  principle,  you  will  remem- 
ber, was  touched  upon  in  our  earlier  analysis  of 
description,  characterization,  dialogue,  and  expo- 
sition. Moreover,  when  hints  suffice  for  elabo- 
rate statements,  not  only  is  there  great  saving  of 
space,  but  the  appeal  to  the  reader's  intelligence, 
if  deftly  made,  does  much  to  stimulate  that  sense 
of  intellectual  satisfaction  wherein  lies  much  of 
the  pleasure  of  reading.  Nowhere  is  this  more 
obvious  than  in  an  artful  ending.  In  the  oft- 
cited  Necklace  of  Maupassant  the  story  ends  with 
the  heroine's  discovery  that  the  jewel  was  of 
paste.  There  is  no  statement  of  after  events  and 
whatever  compensation  there  may  be  for  wasted 
years.  This  would  be  superfluous,  an  anticlimax. 
The  reader  may  imagine  this  for  himself.  So, 
too,  of  a  love  story.  We  need  no  description  of 
the  wedding  to  assure  ourselves  that  the  young 
people  were  legally  married,  that  one  of  them  did 
^ot  die  of  heart-disease  on  the  morning  previous, 


230  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

or  the  other  suffer  a  cautious  second  thought. 
Once  the  line  of  future  development  is  clearly  in- 
dicated the  story  is  done. 

With  the  exposition  and  description  at  the  out- 
set a  like  economy  may  be  effected.  The  writer's 
object  is  to  get  the  essentials  to  clearness  before 
the  reader  as  swiftly  as  possible.  There  are  all 
sorts  of  relevant  but  superfluous  disclosures  from 
which  he  refrains.  In  the  first  paragraphs  of 
Matkheim,  earher  quoted  for  its  character-draw- 
ing and  exposition,  will  be  found  a  good  illustra- 
tion of  this  compactness,  this  freedom  from  the 
superfluous,  and  dependence  upon  the  reader's 
ability  to  grasp  a  hint. 

It  would  seem  that  writers  generally  might  be 
quicker  than  they  are  to  utilize  the  obvious  tricks 
of  suggestion.  Thus,  if  I  mention  Mendelssohn's 
'*  Wedding  March "  and  an  expectant  clergy- 
man at  the  altar  I  need  not  add  that  a  wedding  is 
in  prospect,  the  scene  a  church.  If  Smith,  bear- 
ing a  valise  freshly  stuck  with  labels,  walks  up  the 
yy  street  with  an  air  at  once  confident  and  curious, 
I  may  infer  that  Smith  has  returned  to  town  after 
a  considerable  absence.  In  a  thousand  little 
ways  the  skilled  writer  may  guide  his  readers  to 
their  own  deductions  and,  while  effecting  an 
economy  of  space,  confer  pleasure  upon  them  in  so 
doing.  Yet  there  is  relatively  httle  of  this  swift 
and  confident  style.     Only  good  writers  seem  to 


v/ 


SUGGESTION  AND   RESTRAINT     231 

possess  it  and  not  all  of  them,  for  writers  there 
are  whose  substance  interests  despite  defect- 
ive artistry.  Doubtless  the  vicious  habit  of  edi- 
tors of  paying  a  fixed  rate  per  word  rather  than  a 
price  dependent  upon  compactness  and  intensity 
has  much  to  do  with  the  prevailing  cult  of  wordi- 
ness and  obviousness.  Certainly  nine-tenths  of 
creditable  short  stories  might  be  improved  by 
cutting  away  superfluities  and  by  the  substitu- 
tion of  suggestion  for  explanation.  Clearness  is,  \  ^ 
however,  the  first  essential  and  must  not  be  sac-  '^ 
rificed.  Kipling,  whose  suggestive  short  cuts  in 
style  are  worthy  the  study  of  any  writer,  is  some-  7 

times  rather  obscure   by   reason   of  overcom- 
pression. 

A  happy  compromise  between  obviousness, 
which  is  tedious,  and  overrefinement  of  sugges- 
tion, which  is  obscure,  may  be  found  in  Kipling's 
story  They.  More  is  deftly  suggested  than  is 
openly  stated,  as  befits  a  story  of  the  supernatu- 
ral in  which  the  imagination  of  the  reader  must 
be  the  author's  reliance  for  conviction  and 
acceptance.  To  wrench  certain  of  the  suggestive 
passages  from  their  context  is,  of  course,  bar- 
barous, and  to  appreciate  them  in  their  full  excel- 
lence the  story  should  be  read  as  a  whole.  How- 
ever, a  few  instances  will  serve  to  make  evident 
exactly  what  is  meant  by  suggestion  in  our  first 
application  of  the  term. 


232  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  story  recounts  three  motor  visits  to  a  beau- 
tiful old  house  deep  hidden  in  woods.  The  nar- 
rator, chancing  upon  the  place  and  taken  with  its 
beauty,  sees  at  a  distance,  in  the  garden  and  at 
the  windows  of  the  house,  children,  who  gaze  in 
shy  curiosity  at  the  motor-car,  but  who  do  not 
come  near.  A  blind  woman  is  mistress  of  the 
place.  Her  manner  of  speaking  of  the  children 
is  strange,  as  when  she  says,  "They  really  are 
fond  of  me" — this  when  they  do  not  come  near. 
Again,  speaking  of  the  inability  to  see  the  be- 
loved dead  in  dreams:  "  Then  it  must  be  as  bad  as 
being  blind."  The  butler,  too,  who  sets  the 
visitor  upon  the  right  road  when  he  departs,  asks 
if  he  saw  the  children  before  the  mistress  of  the 
house  appeared.  Why  should  her  presence  be 
necessary,  we  wonder,  and  why  are  the  children 
so  shy?     Is  she  their  mother? 

On  the  second  visit,  the  woman,  when  asked 
how  many  children  there  are,  replies:  "I  don*t 
quite  know;  sometimes  more  and  sometimes  less." 
It  seems,  too,  that  she  possesses  the  strange 
psychic  power  of  perceiving  the  human  aura  and 
is  sensitive  to  the  colors  of  it.  Later  she  is  as- 
tonished that  the  visitor  does  not  understand 
something,  we  do  not  learn  what,  relating  to 
the  children.  She  says  he  will  come  again, 
because  it  is  his  right,  and  "will  walk  in  the 
wood."    The  butler,  it  seems,  has  lost  a  child, 


SUGGESTION  AND   RESTRAINT     233 

and  other  incidents  touch  upon  the  death  of 
children. 

On  the  third  and  last  visit  the  scene  is  within 
doors  mostly.  The  beautiful  old  house  is  filled 
with  things  to  dehght  children,  but  though  the 
mistress  calls  them  they  are  still  shy  and  will  not 
come  near.  A  tenant  farmer,  greatly  and  unac- 
countably frightened,  seeks  an  interview  with  the 
lady  of  the  manor.  The  fireplace  of  the  room  is 
without  iron  (iron  is  hostile  to  spirits) .  Then  by 
a  sign  the  visitor  recognizes  the  presence  of  his 
own  dead  child  and  what  has  been  plainly  fore- 
shadowed is  fully  explicable.  The  blind  woman, 
who  loved  children  but  who  had  none  of  her  own, 
had  by  her  psychic  power  and  the  strength  of  her 
longing  called  the  spirits  of  dead  children  to  be 
her  consolation. 

I  have  not  given  a  half  of  the  suggestive 
touches  by  which  the  story  is  built  up.  At  no 
place,  moreover,  does  the  story  baldly  explain, 
even  at  the  last.  The  reader  must  look  between  *^ 
the  lines.  And  the  result  is  a  story  wonderfully 
affecting,  one  which  stirs  the  imagination  to  en- 
dow the  narrative  with  a  pathos  which  touches 
all  experience  of  loss. 

Restraint 

This  story  will  serve  to  launch  our  discussion 
upon  a  second  principle  of  suggestion,  that  of  re- 


234  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

straint.  The  emotion  of  the  visitor  who  sees  the 
spirit  of  his  dead  child  is  touching,  because  only- 
hinted  at.  There  is  no  parade  of  emotion,  no 
words  to  explain  it;  for  no  words  are  adequate. 
Great  literature  in  its  moments  of  intensity  must 
needs  only  suggest,  not  proclaim,  its  feeling.  We 
distrust  eloquence  at  such  a  time,  for  eloquence 
is  calculated  to  an  effect,  and  when  a  man  is 
swept  with  passion  he  cannot  master  himself  to 
adequate  expression.  A  simple  suggestion  is  far 
more  effective,  for  on  that  the  reader  will  build, 
supplying  from  experience  and  imagination  what 
no  words  could  convey. 

Restraint  is  effective  in  a  hundred  ways,  but 
particularly  in  all  portrayal  of  intense  emotion. 
If  the  words  which  could  most  powerfully  set 
forth  the  emotion  are  inadequate,  it  is  far  bet- 
ter not  to  attempt  even  these  and  to  undershoot 
the  mark.  The  inadequacy  of  stammering  and 
broken  words,  or  of  simple  and  unpretentious 
statement  will,  of  itself,  force  the  reader  to  supply 
in  imagination — if  he  has  it — what  the  author 
deemed  it  impossible  to  convey  by  direct  means. 
A  gesture,  even,  or  the  description  of  facial  ex- 
pression, may  be  better  than  any  attempt  at 
words,  as  a  hand  clasp  or  a  glance  may  express 
sympathy  more  certainly  than  eloquent  and 
elaborate  speech.  That  this  is  so  all  great  liter- 
ature  attests.    Thus   Macduff,  when  news   is 


SUGGESTION  AND  RESTRAINT     235 

brought  him  of  wife  and  children  slain  by  Mac- 
beth, "He  has  no  children!"  In  Henry  Esmond 
the  quarrel  of  Esmond  and  the  Pretender  is  a 
fine  example;  and  again,  in  Vanity  Fair,  the  scene 
in  which  Rawdon  Crawley  surprises  Becky  and 
Lord  Steyne. 

Restraint  may  be  likened  to  control  in  singing. 
The  great  tenor  at  the  opera  knows  just  how  far 
he  can  crowd  his  voice  in  pitch  and  volume — and 
never  permits  himself  to  go  so  far.  The  result  is, 
that  though  he  is  doing  almost  all  of  which  he  is 
capable,  he  seems  to  be  holding  himself  in  check, 
to  be  capable  of  yet  higher  notes  and  a  still 
greater  volume  of  tone.  The  less  artful  singer 
pushes  himself  to  the  utmost,  and  the  hearer  is  on 
tenter-hooks  lest  the  voice  break  utterly.  The 
sense  conveyed  of  power  in  reserve,  of  resources 
dehberately  ignored,  is  the  quality  of  restraint. 
It  gives  strength  to  style,  and  the  great  writers  in 
their  most  commanding  utterances  are  thus, 
seemingly,  most  simple  and  imforced. 

Enlargement  by  Suggestion 

In  our  analysis  of  restraint  we  have  passed  be- 
yond the  merely  mechanical  aspects  of  sugges- 
tion, that  is  of  compressed  utterance,  and  entered 
a  larger  field.  Suggestion  in  its  broader  impUca- 
tions  employs  devices  some  of  which  we  should 
consider  in  detail. 


236  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

If  the  writer,  in  his  selection  of  incidents  and 
in  their  narration,  can  stimulate  the  reader  to 
^  imagine  untold  incidents,  he  has  then  been  sug- 
gestive in  the  fullest  meaning  of  the  term.  Dau- 
det^s  story  The  Siege  of  Berlin  will  serve  to  illus- 
trate the  point.  The  story  concerns  a  veteran 
of  the  First  Empire  who,  upon  news  of  the  first 
disaster  of  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  is  prostrated 
and  seems  upon  the  point  of  death.  To  make 
possible  his  recovery,  his  granddaughter  and  the 
doctor  combine  to  deceive  him  as  to  the  true 
course  of  events.  They  manufacture  news  of  the 
war  and  fabricate  letters  from  his  son,  who  is  at 
the  front.  France,  instead  of  being  overrun  by 
an  invading  army,  is  herself  the  invader,  and, 
while  Paris  is  besieged,  the  old  colonel  imagines 
BerHn  all  but  taken: 

"It  was  necessary  to  keep  him  au  courant  with 
the  movements  of  the  army  and  to  invent  mih- 
tary  bulletins.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  that  beautiful 
girl  bending  night  and  day  over  her  map  of  Ger- 
many, marking  it  with  little  flags,  forcing  herself 
to  combine  the  whole  of  a  glorious  campaign— 
Bazaine  on  the  road  to  BerHn,  Frossard  in  Ba- 
varia, MacMahon  on  the  Baltic.  In  all  this  she 
asked  my  counsel,  and  I  helped  her  as  far  as  I 
could,  but  it  was  the  grandfather  who  did  the 
most  for  us  in  this  imaginary  invasion.  He  had 
conquered  Germany  so  often  during  the  First 
Empire.    He  knew  all  the  moves  beforehand. 


SUGGESTION  AND  RESTRAINT     237 

'Now  they  should  go  there.  This  is  what  they 
will  do,'  and  his  anticipations  were  always  real- 
ized, not  a  little  to  his  pride.  Unfortunately,  we 
might  take  towns  and  gain  battles,  but  we  never 
went  fast  enough  for  the  Colonel.  He  was  in- 
satiable. Every  day  I  was  greeted  with  a  fresh 
feat  of  arms. 

'"Doctor,  we  have  taken  Mayence,'  said  the 
young  girl,  coming  to  meet  me  with  a  heartrend- 
ing smile,  and  through  the  door  I  heard  a  joyous 
voice  crying: 

*"  We  are  getting  on,  we  are  getting  on.  In  a 
week  we  shall  enter  Berlin.' 

''At  that  moment  the  Prussians  were  but  a 
week  from  Paris. 

"From  that  day  our  military  operations  be- 
came much  simpler.  Taking  Berhn  was  merely 
a  matter  of  patience.  Every  now  and  then,  when 
the  old  man  was  tired  of  waiting,  a  letter  from  his 
son  was  read  to  him — an  imaginary  letter,  of 
course,  as  nothing  could  enter  Paris,  and  as,  since 
Sedan,  MacMahon's  aide-de-camp  had  been  sent 
to  a  German  fortress.  Can  you  not  imagine  the 
despair  of  the  poor  girl,  without  tidings  of  her 
father,  knowing  him  to  be  a  prisoner,  deprived  of 
all  comforts,  perhaps  ill,  and  yet  obHged  to  make 
him  speak  in  cheerful  letters,  somewhat  short,  as 
from  a  soldier  in  the  field,  always  advancing  in  a 
conquered  country.  Sometimes,  when  the  inva- 
lid was  weaker  than  usual,  weeks  passed  without 
fresh  news.  But  was  he  anxious  and  unable  to 
sleep,  suddenly  a  letter  arrived  from  Germany 
which  she  read  gayly  at  his  bedside,  struggling 


238  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

hard  with  her  tears.  The  Colonel  listened  re- 
ligiously, smiling  with  an  air  of  superiority,  ap- 
proving, criticising,  explaining,  but  it  was  in  his 
answers  to  his  son  that  he  was  at  his  best. 
*  Never  forget  that  you  are  a  Frenchman,'  he 
) wrote;  'be  generous  to  those  poor  people.  Do 
not  make  the  invasion  too  hard  for  them.'  His 
advice  was  never  ending;  edifying  sermons  about 
respect  of  property,  the  politeness  due  to  ladies, 
— in  short,  quite  a  code  of  military  honor  for  the 
use  of  conquerors.  With  all  this  he  put  in  some 
general  reflections  on  politics  and  the  conditions 
of  peace  to  be  imposed  on  the  vanquished. 
With  regard  to  the  latter,  I  must  say  he  was 
not  exacting: 

**  *The  war  indemnity  and  nothing  else.  It  is 
no  good  to  take  provinces.  Can  one  turn  Ger- 
many into  France? ' " 

Little  is  told  of  the  siege  of  Paris,  only  a  detail 
now  and  then,  sufficient  to  keep  before  the  reader 
the  suppressed  background  of  reality.  As  the 
veteran,  in  his  comfortable  room,  follows  the  suc- 
cesses of  the  French  invaders,  the  reader  sup- 
phes  in  imagination  the  privations  which  are  en- 
dured close  at  hand  with  the  French,  not  the 
Prussians,  the  sufferers.  The  effect  is  curiously 
powerful  and  graphic,  and  due  solely  to  the  im- 
agination, guided,  of  course,  by  the  writer,  to 
whom  the  scenes  untold  are  even  more  vivid 
than  to  us.  Yet  one  must  needs  be  a  good  reader 
to  get  the  full  force  of  the  story. 


SUGGESTION  AND   RESTRAINT     239 

Suggestion  may,  too,  open  up  avenues  of  spec- 
ulation by  touching  upon  incidents  and  relations 
antecedent  or  auxiliary  to  the  story  proper.  The 
story  then  becomes  the  centre  of  interest  among 
several  or  many  scenes,  and  there  is  given  to  it  the 
effect  of  being  but  an  incident  taken  from  a  larger 
whole — that  of  life  itself.  The  story  gains  in 
effect  immensely  thereby,  for  it  no  longer  seems  a 
detached,  complete,  and  unrelated  thing  but  a 
part,  one  of  many  parts,  of  experience  as  a  whole. 
This  does  not  contravene  any  principle  of  unity, 
for  it  may  be  a  complete  and  harmonious  whole, 
and  yet  suggest  the  larger  whole.  If  this  ap- 
pears paradoxical  it  is,  as  we  have  seen,  but  one 
of  the  many  paradoxes,  such  as  the  dual  time 
scheme,  which  the  art  of  fiction  embraces. 

But  let  us  consider  specific  illustrations  to 
make  our  meaning  apparent.  I  recall  a  story  of 
Bunner's,  Our  Aromatic  Uncle,  which  illustrates 
the  point  in  simple  fashion.  It  is  of  a  rich  China 
merchant,  who  seeks  his  nephew  and  niece  whom 
he  has  never  seen.  In  the  end  it  turns  out  that 
he  is  not  the  uncle  at  all,  but  the  butcher  boy 
who  admired  him  and  who  ran  away  to  sea 
with  him.  With  these  youthful  adventures  the 
story  has  not  directly  to  do,  but  the  hints  of 
this  antecedent  action  envelop  the  story  with  a 
romantic  atmosphere.  The  reader  speculates 
upon  the  story  suggested,  and  thereby  is  the 


240  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

written  story  enriclied  and  made  a  part  of  a 
larger  whole. 

Hints  of  previous  action  in  which  the  charac- 
ters have  participated  may  often  be  legitimately 
given  in  dialogue  and  without  obscuring  the  im- 
mediate purpose  in  hand.  Or  the  author  in  his 
exposition  may  give  the  clew.  Kipling,  in  his 
earlier  work,  often  made  use  of  the  device  of  citing 
a  second  story  by  way  of  illustration,  and  then 
dismissing  it  with  the  words  ^'but  that  is  another 
story."  In  this  instance  the  device  becomes  a 
mere  trick,  but  the  purpose  of  creating  atmos- 
phere by  suggestion  is  sound. 

Another  device,  similar  in  kind,  is  that  of  the 
generalized  or  philosophical  introduction.  The 
writer  makes  a  comment  upon  life,  phrasing  a 
generalization  which  he  believes  universally  true. 
He  then  tells  his  story  as  a  specific  incident  in 
point.  The  story  thus  seems  to  be  broadly  typ- 
ical, its  significance  not  of  itself  alone  but  of 
many  another  instance  like  it.  Maupassant, 
Kipling,  Turgenieff,  and  other  good  writers  re- 
sort sometimes  to  this  expedient  to  weight  their 
narratives  with  suggestive  power. 

That  the  author  may  successfully  charge  his 
story  with  suggestive  hints,  it  is  necessary,  how- 
ever, that  he  imagine  more  incident  than  he 
actually  incorporates  in  his  story.  He  should  so 
have  imagined  characters,  so  created  circum- 


SUGGESTION  AND   RESTRAINT     241 

stances  antecedent  to  and  coincident  with  the  - 
story  proper  that  he  can  refer  to  them  without 
effort  in  passing,  and  without  distracting  atten- 
tion from  incidents  which  the  reader  should 
weigh.  Not  otherwise  can  the  hints  dropped 
seem  natural  and  unforced,  nor  will  unity  and 
proper  emphasis  be  possible.  The  story  can  be 
made  a  cross-section  of  life  only  as  life  is  really  *^ 
grasped.     Pretence  and  sham  will  be  apparent. 

The  introductory  paragraphs  of  Bourget's 
story  Another  Gambler  will  serve  to  illustrate  this 
wealth  of  story  material  suggested,  but  not  di- 
rectly utilized: 

"Though  he  was  your  cousin,"  I  said  to  Claude 
after  reading  a  telegram  which  he  handed  to  me, 
"you  surely  cannot  grieve  for  his  death.  He  has 
done  justice  on  himself ;  and  I  did  not  expect  it  of 
him.  His  suicide  spares  your  old  uncle  the  scan- 
dal of  a  shocking  trial.  But  what  a  history!  . 
That  old  woman  murdered  merely  for  the  sake  of  ^ 
her  trumpery  savings!  To  come  to  such  an  end, 
through  degradation  after  degradation — he  whom 
we  once  knew  so  proud,  so  elegant!  I  see  him 
now  when  he  first  arrived  in  our  old  provincial 
town,  just  after  he  had  been  appointed  lieutenant 
of  artillery.  We  followed  him  in  the  streets  with 
such  boyish  pride.  He  was  twenty-seven,  and 
you  were  not  a  third  of  his  age.  Ah,  well,  in 
spite  of  all — ^poor,  poor  Lucien!" 

With  the  incidents  thus  briefly  outlined  tJie 
story  is  not  concerned,  save  in  this  suggestive 


242  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

fashion;  these  are  the  indirect  outcome  of  the 
story  incidents  yet  to  be  related.  Who  the  old 
woman  was,  the  manner  of  her  death,  and  the 
theft  of  her  money  are  not  given  in  any  fuller  de- 
tail. But  from  what  we  learn  later  of  the  crim- 
inal we  are  at  liberty  to  speculate  and  devise 
whatsoever  stories  we  please. 

Selection  of  setting,  character,  and  incident,  all 
have  their  place  in  imparting  that  larger  signifi- 
cance to  a  story  which  is  embraced  in  the  mean- 
ing of  our  term  ''suggestion,"  If  the  action  is 
peculiar,  the  setting  remote,  and  the  characters 
bizarre,  the  less  likehhood  is  there  that  the  story 
possess  a  significance  wider  than  that  explicit  in 
the  action.  Art  attempts  to  universalize;  that  is, 
it  selects  characters,  situations,  emotions,  and 
ideas  which  touch  our  experience  closely  at  many 
points.  We  say  of  a  story  that  it  is  characteris- 
tic or  true — characteristic  in  that  it  is  representa- 
tive of  life  and  implies  more  than  it  tells.  But 
these  implications  we  ourselves  supply  from  our 
own  experience  of  life,  though  the  writer  must, 
of  course,  touch  our  latent  memories  by  artful  ap- 
peal. Herein  lies  much  of  the  power  of  a  quiet 
and  detailed  realism.  The  little  familiar  touches, 
commonplace  in  themselves,  serve  to  recall  our 
experiences  of  a  Hke  kind,  which,  thus  remem- 
bered, are  somehow  more  pleasant  than  reality 
Itself.     It  is  as  though  we  were  but  suddenly 


SUGGESTION  AND   RESTRAINT     243 

awakened  to  the  true  flavor  of  life,  which  we  had 
not  realized  before.  Stories  equally  well  done 
but  dealing  with  a  manner  of  life  or  emotion 
utterly  foreign  to  us  make  no  such  appeal;  hence 
the  difficulty  of  appreciating  the  literature  of  a 
foreign  people,  unless  the  writer  is  so  universal  as 
to  make  the  differences  of  experience  less  signifi- 
cant than  the  resemblances.  Bjornson,  for  ex- 
ample, I  read  with  little  understanding,  and  con- 
sequently little  interest.  Tolstoy  and  Turgenieff , 
however,  I  find  intelligible,  for  they  bring  home 
the  likenesses  of  people  rather  than  racial  differ- 
ences of  custom  and  emotion.  Being  thus  uni- 
versal, they  are  interesting,  for  the  life  which  they 
reveal  is  fundamentally  like  that  I  know. 

In  this  chapter  I  have  touched  only  upon  cer- 
tain fairly  obvious  devices  whereby  suggestion  is 
attained.  I  trust  I  have  made  clear  its  object  if 
nothing  more.  It  seeks  to  enrich  the  story,  which 
must  perforce  deal  with  but  few  and  selected  in- 
cidents, by  stimulating  the  imagination  of  the 
reader  to  the  elaboration  of  other  incidents  and 
stories  antecedent,  coincident,  and  subsequent. 
In  so  doing  it  relates  the  story  to  the  larger  whole 
of  Ufe. 


-v^ 


( .J 


CHAPTER  XIII 
UNITY  OF  TONE 

Many  of  my  readers  will,  I  am  sure,  have  taken 
exception  to  this  or  that  generalization  laid 
down  as  fundamental  to  a  sound  story  technic. 
They  will  have  had  in  mind  certain  fine  stories 
which  violate  the  unities  of  action,  time,  or  place, 
or  commit  other  artistic  misdemeanors,  and  are 
nevertheless  vital  and  effective  pieces  of  writing, 
superior  to  academic  rules  and  precepts.  Yet  our 
generalizations  are  sound  in  the  main;  safe  guides 
for  the  writer  who  is  learning  his  craft,  and  the 
exceptions  themselves  obey  a  higher  law  which 
we  have  now  to  define.  "Unity  of  Tone"  is  the 
term  employed  to  designate  the  highest  degree  of 
story  effectiveness,  and  some  stories  which  vio- 
late an  accepted  principle  of  structure  possess 
this  compensating  virtue.  But  it  is  a  term  which, 
though  critically  useful,  is  vague,  and  demands 
careful  explanation. 

By  unity  of  tone  is  meant  a  harmony  of  parts 
— incidents,  characters,  speech,  place,  and  emo- 
tion— which  has  as  its  result  singleness  of  im- 
244 


UNITY  OF  TONE  245 

pression.  The  reader  recalls  not  so  much  the  in- 
cidents of  the  story  as  the  totality  of  its  effect 
upon  him.  It  aroused  in  him  a  single  dominant 
emotion — fear,  sympathy,  kindliness,  irony,  pes- 
simism, and  the  like.  This  it  did  because  all  of 
its  energies  were  directed  to  that  end,  the  author, 
dominated  by  the  emotion  which  he  sought  to 
arouse  in  his  readers,  selecting  his  materials  with 
this  object  in  view.  This  emotional  intent  of 
the  author  may  be  said  to  overlay  or  envelop 
his  simple  story  purpose,  that  of  recounting  ac- 
tion, of  picturing  character  or  place,  or  of  con- 
veying an  abstract  idea.  That  is  to  say,  if  I 
write  a  story  of  action,  I  select  my  incidents  to 
make  my  story  interesting  and  effective;  but  I  am 
further  guided  by  an  emotion  which  leads  me  to 
select  a  certain  kind  of  incident  from  the  many 
incidents  possible,  a  kind  in  harmony  with  my 
emotion.  I  have  really  two  purposes  here  which 
I  endeavor  to  harmonize. 

If  I  am  successful  in  my  attempt  to  reconcile 
emotion  and  selection,  there  is  every  chance  that 
my  story  will  be  convincing.  If  I  fail,  my  story 
will  certainly  lack  "unity  of  tone"  and  its  re- 
sultant ''unity  of  impression."  Let  us  be  more 
specific  to  make  the  point  clear.  I  have,  we  will 
say,  resolved  to  write  a  story  of  exciting  incident, 
an  adventure  story.  I  select  appropriate  inci- 
dents and  endeavor  to  combine  them  into  an 


246  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

effective  whole.  I  feel,  however,  no  great  enthu- 
siasm for  this  sort  of  thing,  much  as  I  may  recog- 
nize its  merits.  My  temperament  is  of  a  dif- 
ferent sort.  Action  that  is  of  interest  to  me  is 
action  which  reveals  character,  not  action  for  its 
own  sake.  If  I  am  not  in  emotional  accord  with 
my  proposed  story  the  result  will  be  one  of  two 
things:  either  my  story  will  change  under  my 
hands  and  become  something  different  from  what 
I  intend,  or  I  may  stick  to  my  original  purpose 
and  the  story  become  limp  and  nerveless;  more 
technically,  it  will  lack  conviction,  my  emotion 
being  in  opposition  to  my  theme.  This  discord 
is  at  the  root  of  the  failure  of  many  a  story  writ- 
ten by  a  competent  author  whose  heart  was  not 
in  his  work.  The  story  does  not  convince;  this 
means  more  explicitly  that  the  author  in  his  se- 
lection of  materials  was  not  so  guided  by  an  emo- 
tion in  harmony  with  his  story  purpose  that  he 
selected  always  the  right  incidents;  or  his  story 
became  a  mere  exercise  devoid  of  enthusiasm, 
uninteresting  to  him,  and  hence,  in  ways  unac- 
countable, uninteresting  to  his  readers. 

Scott,  Dumas,  and  Stevenson  have  written  ex- 
cellent stories  of  adventure,  for  they  delighted  in 
action.  Their  stories  are  of  a  kind  with  them- 
selves. We  cannot  imagine  any  one  of  them  writ- 
ing The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  or  Pride  and  Prejudicey 
or  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,  excellent  stories 


UNITY  OF  TONE  247 

but  utterly  different  in  kind  from  Ivanhoe,  The 
Three  Musketeers,  and  Kidnapped.  Excellence 
depends  not  so  much  upon  the  kind  of  subject 
selected  as  upon  sincerity  and  genuineness  of  in- 
terest. Great  stories  can  be  written  of  a  dozen 
different  types  provided  the  writer  have  an  en- 
thusiasm for  his  work,  for  his  interest  or  lack  of  it 
is  bound  to  show — to  animate  his  work,  to  confuse 
and  perplex  it,  or,  again,  to  leave  it  inert  and 
dead.  He  is  fortunate  who  early  finds  the  kind 
of  thing  he  can  do  best,  which  arouses  his  genu- 
ine interest,  and  who  tries  to  do  nothing  else. 

Unity  of  tone  demands,  then,  that  the  emotion 
of  the  writer,  and  thus  his  purpose,  be  in  har- 
mony with  his  theme.  Emotion  is  not,  of  course, 
sufficient  in  itself,  though  essential,  for  it  must 
be  supplemented  by  good  judgment  and  an  ade- 
quate technic.  It  is  here  that  our  comment 
can  be  made  definite  and  helpful,  for  we  deal 
with  nothing  so  intangible  as  emotional  states, 
but  with  definite  incidents  which  we  may  ex- 
amine and  whose  suitabiHty  to  their  purpose 
we  can  weigh. 

Let  us  consider,  as  an  initial  illustration,  the 
rationalized  story  of  the  supernatural.  The  writer 
here  suffers  from  a  conflict  of  emotions.  He  real- 
izes that  the  supernatural  is  possessed  of  a 
powerful  appeal  and  of  this  he  desires  to  avail 
himself.    He  does  not,  however,  believe  in  the 


248  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

supernatural — in  ghosts,  or  premonitions,  or 
spirit-communications — nor  is  he  able  to  lend 
himself  in  imagination  to  such  a  belief.  There- 
fore he  devises  a  situation  which  is  apparently- 
explicable  only  by  recourse  to  supernatural 
agencies,  and  at  the  end,  having  wrought  his 
readers  to  a  pitch  of  superstitious  emotion,  pro- 
ceeds to  show  that  all  the  phenomena  are  ex- 
plicable by  perfectly  natural  agencies.  In  such 
stories  I  am  conscious  always  of  a  distinct  disap- 
pointment which  I  believe  to  be  perfectly  justi- 
fied and  due  to  a  fault  in  the  writing.  The  story 
purporting  to  deal  with  the  supernatural,  I  lend 
myself  to  it  and,  in  imagination,  yield  to  its  con- 
ditions. I  thus  am  in  accord  with  its  tone.  But 
when  in  its  solution  it  becomes  perfectly  rational, 
I  am  at  a  loss,  and  conscious  of  being  tricked.  It 
is  not  that  I  am  really  a  believer  in  the  super- 
natural, but  that  I  am  quite  ready  to  pretend  to 
such  a  belief  as  the  condition  of  the  story,  and 
in  that  imaginary  belief  I  take  pleasure.  The 
writer  has  made  the  mistake  of  selecting  two  di- 
verse and  incompatible  orders  of  incident,  the 
supernatural  and  the  natural.  These  will  not 
harmonize,  and  the  result  is  failure. 

The  great  story  writers  do  not  make  this  mis- 
take. Mr.  Henry  James,  who  delights  in  quiet 
psychological  studies,  who  is  rational  and  free 
from  superstition,  nevertheless,  in  such  a  story 


UNITY  OF  TONE  249 

as  The  Turn  of  the  Screw,  lays  aside  his  natural 
maimer  and  tells  his  ghost-story,  with  its  horrors 
and  its  apparitions,  as  though  it  were  true.  He 
makes  no  attempt  to  rationalize  it,  for  it  is 
frankly  in  the  realm  of  the  inexplicable.  So,  too, 
Poe,  Maupassant,  and  Kipling  in  their  stories  of 
the  supernatural  are  never  misled  to  an  explana- 
tion. I  say  never,  but  I  recall  a  story  of  Kip- 
ling in  which  the  ghostly  noises  are  traceable  to 
the  wind  blowing  through  a  knot-hole  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  The  story  is  fiat,  and  I  recall 
no  other  instance  in  Kipling  of  a  like  failure.  Fic- 
tion is  governed  by  laws  of  its  own.  The  ghost 
in  Hamlet  may  not  coincide  with  our  scientific 
conceptions  of  the  universe,  but  in  Hamlet  it  is 
true,  and  we  lend  our  imaginations  to  it  and  be- 
lieve it. 

The  failure  of  the  writer  to  remain  true  to  the 
tone  which  he  establishes  at  the  outset  of  his 
story  is  of  Uke  kind  with  the  misuse  of  the  super- 
natural. A  tragedy  should  begin  as  a  tragedy,  a 
comedy  in  the  light  manner  appropriate  to  it. 
In  one  of  Stevenson's  letters  to  Barrie  occurs  a 
comment  in  point: 

.  The  Little  Minister  ought  to  have  ended  badly; 
we  all  know  it  did;  and  we  are  infinitely  grateful 
to  you  for  the  grace  and  good  feeling  with  which 
you  hed  about  it.  If  you  had  told  the  truth,  I 
for  one  could  never  have  forgiven  you.     As  you 


250  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

had  conceived  and  written  the  earlier  parts,  the 
truth  about  the  end,  though  indisputably  true  to 
fact,  would  have  been  a  he,  or  what  is  worse,  a 
discord  in  art.  If  you  are  going  to  make  a  book 
end  badly,  it  must  end  badly  from  the  beginning. 
Now  your  book  began  to  end  well.  You  let 
yourself  fall  in  love  with,  and  fondle,  and  smile  at 
your  puppets.  Once  you  had  done  that  your 
honor  was  committed — at  the  cost  of  truth  to  life 
you  were  bound  to  save  them.  It  is  the  blot  on 
Richard  Fever  el,  for  instance,  that  it  begins  to  end 
well;  and  then  tricks  you  and  ends  ill.  But  in 
that  case  there  is  worse  behind,  for  the  ill-ending 
does  not  inherently  issue  from  the  plot — the 
story  had,  in  fact,  ended  well  after  the  last  great 
interview  between  Richard  and  Lucy — and  the 
bUnd,  illogical  bullet  which  smashes  all  has  no 
more  to  do  between  the  boards  than  a  fly  has  to 
do  with  the  room  into  whose  open  window  it 
comes  buzzing.  It  might  have  so  happened;  it 
needed  not;  and  unless  needs  must,  we  have  no 
right  to  pain  our  readers.  I  have  had  a  heavy 
case  of  conscience  of  the  same  kind  about  my 
Braxfield  story.  Braxfield — only  his  name  is 
Hermiston — has  a  son  who  is  condemned  to 
death;  plainly,  there  is  a  fine  tempting  fitness 
about  this;  and  I  meant  he  was  to  hang.  But 
now  on  considering  my  minor  characters,  I  saw 
there  were  five  people  who  would — in  a  sense, 
who  must — break  prison  and  attempt  his  rescue. 
They  were  capable,  hardy  folks,  too,  who  might 
very  well  succeed.  Why  should  they  not  then? 
Why  should  not  young  Hermiston  escape  clear 
out  of  the  country?  and  be  happy.  .  .  . 


UNITY  OF  TONE  251 

Stevenson  means  this.  The  Little  Minister  is 
keyed  at  the  outset  to  the  light  romantic  manner. 
Character,  incident,  scene,  and  dialogue  point 
all  to  a  story  of  this  tone.  Yet  the  theme  of  the 
story  logically  precludes  a  happy  and  romantic 
ending.  The  hero  is,  by  rights,  forced  to  choose 
between  Babbie  and  his  church.  He  cannot 
have  both,  for  they  are  irreconcilable.  To  sur- 
render either  is  to  involve  tragedy.  Barrie  elects 
to  keep  the  tone  romantic,  in  the  vein  of  comedy, 
and  forces  his  story  to  a  conclusion  which  we  can- 
not rightly  believe.  We  know  it  could  not  really 
end  that  way,  but  we  are  glad  that  he  chose  to 
have  it  so,  for  our  affections  have  been  enlisted. 
Nevertheless,  though  Barrie  has  been  true  to  the 
tone  established,  the  story  is  badly  constructed, 
for  we  should  not  be  forced  to  a  position  of  sym- 
pathy and  judgment  at  odds. 

In  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  the  converse  is 
true.  There  is  here  a  discord  between  the  tone 
established  at  the  outset  and  that  of  the  termina- 
tion of  the  story.  By  its  conditions  the  story 
may  or  may  not  end  tragically,  but  the  high 
romantic  manner  of  the  opening  has  led  us  to 
expect  a  happy  ending.  The  author  has  trusted 
his  head,  not  his  heart,  in  his  choice  and  has 
forced  his  story  to  a  logical  though  not  an  ar- 
tistic denouement.  His  error  lay  in  leading  us 
to  anticipate  something  better.    With  his  con- 


252  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

elusion  in  mind  as  he  began,  he  should  have 
led  us  to  expect  it. 

The  plays  of  Shakespeare  afford  numerous 
examples  of  tone  in  harmony  with  the  theme. 
From  the  first  scene  of  Hamlet — the  time,  setting, 
and  emotions  of  the  characters — we  are  led  to 
anticipate  a  tragedy  involving  supernatural  ele- 
ments. From  Romeo  and  Juliet  we  expect  at  the 
outset  a  romantic  tragedy  of  rapid  and  exciting 
action;  from  Twelfth  Night  a  romantic  and  sen- 
timental comedy.  As  You  Like  It  strikes  a  false 
note  at  the  outset  and  does  not  get  into  the  ap- 
propriate tone  for  a  scene  or  two;  in  fact,  not 
until  the  action  is  transferred  to  the  forest. 

In  selecting  incidents  appropriate  to  the  action 
a  writer  is  guided  almost  solely  by  the  nature 
of  the  tone  estabUshed.  In  a  dashing  story  of 
adventure  we  gayly  accept  the  impossible.  The 
hero  may  perform  prodigies  and  we  never  ques- 
tion his  ability.  Yet  in  one  of  Jane  Austen's 
n/  quiet  stories  we  should  be  startled  by  any- 
thing other  than  the  commonplace.  M.  Marcel 
Schwob,  in  an  illuminating  passage,  discusses  this 
point  with  reference  to  Stevenson.  The  following 
is  a  free  translation  of  a  part  of  his  comment: 

The  realism  of  Stevenson  is  quite  irrational, 
and  it  is  for  that  reason  that  it  is  so  powerful. 
Stevenson  regards  objects  only  with  the  eyes  of 
imagination.    No  man  has  a  face  as  large  as  a 


UNITY  OF  TONE  253 

ham;  the  sparkling  of  the  silver  buttons  of  Alan 
Brack's  coat  when  he  leaps  aboard  the  Covenant 
is  highly  improbable;  the  unwavering  flames  and 
smoke  of  the  candles  in  the  duel  scene  of  the 
Master  of  Ballantrae  would  be  possible  only  in  a 
laboratory;  never  would  the  leprosy  resemble  the 
speck  of  lichen  which  Keawe  discovered  on  his 
skin;  who  can  beUeve  that  CassiUs,  in  thePavilion 
on  the  Links,  could  see  a  man's  eyes  glisten 
in  the  light  of  the  moon,  though  he  was  a  good 
many  yards  distant?  I  need  not  speak  of  an 
error  which  Stevenson  himself  recognized,  that 
by  which  he  made  Alison  do  an  impossible  thing: 
''She  spied  the  sword,  picked  it  up  .  .  .  and 
thrust  it  to  the  hilt  into  the  frozen  ground." 

But  these  are  not  in  truth  errors:  they  are 
impressions  stronger  than  reality  itself.  Often 
we  find  in  writers  the  power  of  enhancing  the  ef- 
fect of  reality  through  words  alone;  I  know  of  no 
other  impressions  which  without  the  aid  of  dic- 
tion are  more  vivid  than  reality.  .  .  .  Yet  though 
false  to  the  world  of  experience  as  we  know  it, 
they  are,  properly  speaking,  the  quintessence  of 
fact.  .  .  .  They  create  that  heightened  vigor  and 
vivacity  by  which  beings  in  the  world  of  books 
surpass  the  people  whom  we  know  in  the  world 
about  us. 

The  point  would  seem  to  be  this:  in  romance  it 
is  permissible  to  introduce  impossible  incidents 
provided  the  story  has  wrought  the  reader  to 
such  a  pitch  that  he  accepts  the  incidents  as  cred- 
ible.   The  converse  is  equally  true.     If  a  story 


254  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

has  failed  to  create  the  necessary  emotional  con- 
dition in  the  reader  it  may  not  introduce  inci- 
dents perfectly  possible  but  out  of  harmony  with 
the  story.  We  will  not  beheve  such  incident; 
imder  the  conditions  of  the  story  it  is  not  credible. 
Credibility,  not  possibility,  is  the  test  of  incident, 
and  credibiUty  depends  upon  the  emotions  and 
the  imagination,  not  upon  reasoned  judgment. 
Not  every  one  beheves  this,  either  writer  or 
reader.  Readers  there  are  who  scoff  at  fairy 
tales,  stories  of  the  supernatural,  anything,  in 
short,  not  expHcable  by  the  laws  of  natural  science. 
Such  a  state  of  mind  argues  a  defective  imagina- 
tion. A  good  reader  is  himself  an  artist,  and 
without  him  good  writing  would  be  impossible. 
Like  the  White  Queen,  your  good  reader  can 
believe  six  impossible  things  before  breakfast — 
only,  before  he  can  do  so,  it  is  essential  that  you 
work  him  to  a  pitch  of  imagination  and  emotional 
response  to  the  story. 

Mention  was  made  in  the  chapter  upon  "Ex- 
position and  Preparation"  of  the  surprise  stories 
of  0.  Henry.  These  are  in  part  explicable  by  the 
principles  of  construction  there  outlined,  but  as  a 
whole  are  more  readily  understood  at  this  point. 
They  may  best  be  explained  by  analogy,  and  this 
to  a  minor  form  of  prose  fiction,  the  extrava- 
ganza. 

The  extravaganza  is  openly  in  violation  of  all 


UNITY  OF  TONE  255 

probability  and  possibility.  In  it  the  reader 
takes  pleasure  in  the  topsy-turvydom  of  the 
natural  order  of  events.  He  expects  not  a  log- 
ical solution  of  a  difficulty  but  an  illogical,  and  he 
finds  pleasure  in  being  outguessed  by  the  author 
as  to  its  terms.  He  is,  however,  on  the  alert,  Hke 
a  scout  anticipating  an  ambush,  and  who  is,  there- 
fore, not  surprised  when  he  stumbles  into  one. 
All  depends  upon  the  awareness  of  the  reader. 
In  Alice  in  Wonderland  at  the  outset  Alice  falls 
asleep.  We  then  are  prepared  for  the  illogical 
order  of  dreams,  and  are  not  astounded  when  the 
White  Rabbit  begins  to  talk  or  when  Alice  falls 
to  the  bottom  of  the  well  unhurt.  After  this  any- 
thing may  happen,  for  the  tone  of  extravaganza 
has  been  set.  Events  must,  however,  be  hence- 
forth illogical  and  absurd,  or  the  tone  will  be  un- 
true, just  as  in  a  realistic  story  an  extravagant  cir- 
cumstance would  be  false  and  out  of  tone.  Fairy 
tales  and  stories  of  the  supernatural  partake  ov 
the  impossible  in  varying  degrees.  In  a  story 
which  begins  "Once  there  lived  a  witch,"  it  is 
permissible  that  cats  and  dogs  speak  to  us.  The 
tone  established  permits  such  deviations  from 
human  experience.  Incident  is  selected  not  for 
its  truth  to  life  but  for  its  suitability  to  the  story. 
The  means  whereby  the  heroine  attains  happi- 
ness may  be  impossible;  yet  a  perfectly  normal 
incident  involving  her  in  unhappiness  when  the 


256  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

story  had  promised  a  brighter  conclusion  would 
be  worse  than  this;  it  would  be  false  art. 

0.  Henry  in  his  stories  masters  the  tone  which 
permits  the  unexpected.  Usually  there  is  some 
logical  preparation  as  well,  but  the  main  resource 
is  the  established  tone.  By  bizarre  description, 
setting,  and  characterization  the  writer  puts  us  on 
the  alert  for  unusual  happenings.  Coincidence 
and  accident  are  here  permissible,  though  these 
in  the  normal  story  are  taboo.  Thus  in  The 
Fifth  Wheel  of  the  Chariot  the  missing  son  is  re- 
stored- to  his  mother  by  a  chain  of  coincidences 
which,  in  a  story  of  a  different  tone,  we  could  not 
accept.  All  depends  upon  the  degree  of  realism 
with  which  the  writer  pretends  to  reflect  life. 
The  tone  once  established,  it  must  be  maintained 
consistently.  Savage  realism  is  as  untrue  to 
light  romance — as  incredible  therefore — as  would 
be  a  normal  reahstic  cat  in  place  of  the  Cheshire 
Cat  in  Alice  in  Wonderland.  In  the  novels  of 
Mr.  Howells  the  light  mood  of  romance  or  the 
bizarre  incidents  of  O.  Henry  would  strike  as 
falsely  upon  the  ear  as  a  discord  in  music. 

Unity  of  tone,  involving  as  it  does  the  har- 
mony of  all  parts,  cannot  be  here  illustrated  in 
each  of  its  aspects.  My  readers  will  recall  the 
illustration  cited  in  the  chapter  upon  "  Dialogue  " 
as  a  further  case  in  point.  In  the  passage  quoted, 
Stevenson  spoke  of  his  difficulty  in  pitching  the 


UNITY  OF  TONE  257 

dialogue  in  The  Ebb  Tide  to  the  proper  key.  The 
problem  was  this:  the  narrative  is  told  in  the 
writer's  own  person,  the  point  of  view  being  that 
of  the  author-omniscient;  the  style,  therefore, 
is  that  of  Stevenson,  the  finished  writer.  The 
characters,  however,  speak  realistically,  in  an- 
other tone,  that  is.  Stevenson  felt  there  was  a 
discord  here,  one  which  he  could  not  overcome  by 
reason  of  the  point  of  view  selected.  Were  the 
story  to  be  told  from  the  point  of  view  of  one  of 
the  participants  the  difficulty  might  be  obviated, 
but  such  a  point  of  view  would  have  made  impos- 
sible the  character  analysis  which  the  author 
sought.  It  was  because  of  such  difficulties  that 
Stevenson  inclined  to  the  point  of  view  of  the 
actor-narrator,  whose  matter-of-fact  narrative 
might  be  brought  into  accord  with  the  dialogue. 
There  are  difficulties  here  as  well,  for  a  bare  and 
restricted  style  proves  uninteresting  if  long  main- 
tained, and  the  point  of  view  hampers  the  expo- 
sition and  the  choice  of  incident.  The  merit  of 
the  method  is  that  it  affords  opportunity  for  a 
consistent  narrative  tone. 

A  further  problem  of  unity  of  tone  is  the  mat- 
ter of  appropriate  setting.  Scene,  time  of  year, 
time  of  day,  sunshine,  rain,  or  fog  are  all  within 
the  control  of  the  writer.  He  may  select  such 
natural  conditions  as  will  harmonize  with  his 
story,  and  influence  the  reader,  through  sugges- 


258  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

tion,  to  the  state  of  mind  essential  to  a  proper 
acceptance  of  the  story  as  a  whole.  The  quiet, 
realistic  stories  of  Jane  Austen  and  Howells  de- 
mand no  unusual  settings  or  conditions.  Com- 
monplace surroundings  are  in  keeping  with  the 
incidents  of  the  story;  the  wild  and  gloomy  back- 
grounds of  romantic  noveHsts  are  unsuited  to  the 
theme.  So,  too,  are  times  more  romantic  than 
our  own.  Therefore,  Jane  Austen  and  Mr.  How- 
ells write  of  their  own  day.  The  romantic  au- 
thor goes  afield  in  time  and  place  to  find  circum- 
stances in  harmony  with  his  theme,  to  the  days  of 
knighthood,  to  the  wars,  to  the  wild  places  of  the 
earth ;  or  if  he  writes  of  our  own  day  he  seeks  the 
romantic  aspects  of  it — the  lives  and  conditions 
of  soldiers,  detectives,  criminals,  and  the  like. 

The  writer  upon  the  supernatural  does  not  set 
his  story  in  the  middle  of  Broadway  on  a  sunny 
afternoon.  He  seeks  mysterious  houses,  lonely 
situations,  night-time,  and  other  appropriate  cir- 
cumstances. For  his  love  scenes  another  selects 
spring-time  and  outdoor  beauty,  sunshine  and 
growing  things.  This  is  not  the  invariable  pro- 
cedure, of  course,  for  contrast  is  always  possible; 
the  hero  may  propose  to  the  heroine  on  a  trolley- 
car  in  a  rain-storm.  Whatever  its  character,  the 
setting  should  be  selected  for  its  probable  effect 
upon  the  reader;  it  can  never  be  a  matter  of 
indifference. 


UNITY  OF  TONE  259 

I  fancy  many  readers  objecting  to  this  state- 
ment. They  disdain  the  artistry  which  selects  its 
scene,  its  time  of  day  and  year,  its  characters  and 
dialogue  and  incident,  all  deliberately  and  with 
the  object  of  effecting  a  harmony  of  parts.  This 
is  too  cold  and  deliberate  a  process,  say  they,  and 
its  result  is  conventionality  and  usualness.  Let 
us  do  without  artificial  aids.  The  convention  of 
a  spring  setting  for  a  love  scene  is  old  and  time- 
worn.  My  story  will  gain  in  freshness  should  I 
discard  the  convention.  In  other  words,  the  ob- 
jection here,  as  in  any  sophisticated  art,  is  to  ob- 
vious artifice.  However  deliberate  may  have 
been  the  selection  of  every  detail,  the  effective- 
ness of  the  whole  is  impaired  if  too  openly  con- 
trived. The  art  of  it  should  be  concealed;  the 
story  must  be,  seemingly,  spontaneous.  But  the 
effect  of  careless  frankness  and  disregard  of  ar- 
tistic conventions  is  a  tone  of  writing  in  itself. 
The  actor-narrator  perhaps  remarks:  "I  am  a 
plain,  blunt  man,  and  shall  set  down  the  strange 
occurrences  of  the  night  of  July  16  exactly  as  I 
witnessed  them."  This  is  a  transparent  attempt 
to  command  the  reader's  creduKty,  and  is  as  much 
an  artifice  as  any  other  tone.  When  artistically 
managed,  however,  the  seemingly  artless  story  is 
highly  effective.  Kipling  and  Conrad  are  suc- 
cessful often  in  concealing  their  artistry,  and  thus 
achieve  convincingness.     Conrad  does  it  some- 


26o  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

times,  like  an  inexperienced  writer,  by  the  hazard- 
ous expedient  of  violating  the  time  order'.'^  Kip- 
ling, in  his  earlier  stories,  by  a  journaHstic  method, 
by  incorporating  a  good  deal  of  corroborative  de- 
tail, by  suggestion — relating  the  story  to  inci- 
dents precedent,  collateral,  and  subsequent,  and 
by  an  avoidance  of  the  familiar  devices  of  the 
story-teller — contrives  this  effect  of  ease  and  nat- 
uralness. We  believe  that  the  author  is,  as  he 
pretends,  a  mere  eye-witness,  chronicling  facts 
over  which  he  has  no  control.  A  tone  so  estab- 
lished is  excellent  for  some  purposes,  particularly 
for  stories  of  impossible  or  unlikely  happenings. 
The  businesslike  matter-of-factness  of  the  tone 
inspires  creduhty  in  the  reader.  Many  of  Stock- 
ton's stories  achieve  this  effect  admirably,  utterly 
absurd  circumstances  being  told  with  a  gravity  of 
countenance  and  a  realism  of  detail  which  silence 
scepticism. 

In  contrast  with  this  easy,  natural,  and  seem- 
ingly, artless  tone  are  many  of  the  stories  of  Ste- 
venson and  Poe.  These  writers  were,  perhaps, 
as  consciously  artistic  as  any  in  our  hterature, 
and  at  times  their  artistry  is  only  too  apparent. 
I  have  cited  from  their  works  again  and  again, 
for  they  illustrate  to  the  best  advantage  nearly 
every  point  of  story  technic.  Yet  it  is  undenia- 
ble that  the  reader,  though  admiring  the  art,  is 
not  always  carried  away  by  the  story.   The  con- 


UNITY  OF  TONE  261 

sciousness  that  the  story  is  a  thing  apart  is  dom- 
inant, and  the  reader  does  not  give  himself  abso- 
lutely to  it;  his  imagination  does  not  sweep  him 
to  complete  surrender.  In  so  far  as  this  is  true 
the  stories  of  Poe  and  Stevenson — and  Haw- 
thorne as  well — fall  short  of  the  highest  art  which 
conceals  itself. 

The  extreme  of  naturalness  in  tone  may  be  il- 
lustrated by  stories  written  after  the  manner  of 
Nevinson's  Slum  Stories  of  London.  In  these  the 
structural  principle  that  no  incident  should  be  in- 
troduced which  does  not  contribute  to  the  prog- 
ress of  the  story,  to  the  development  of  plot,  is 
deliberately  violated.  A  situation  is  constructed 
which  leads  us  to  expect  a  logical  conclusion 
therefrom.  Yet  the  preparation  so  carefully  con- 
trived leads  to  nothing.  The  story  fails  to  realize 
its  promise;  characters  introduced  at  the  begin- 
ning, who  should  by  all  the  laws  of  conventional 
structure  reappear  to  round  off  the  situation,  are 
never  seen  again-  The  effect  is  of  perfect  casual- 
ness;  that  of  life  itself,  which  prepares  a  situation 
and  then  neglects  to  develop  it.  Life  is  filled 
with  such  unfinished  stories.  All  of  us  have  had 
experience  of  them  and  have  been  disappointed 
when  the  characters  necessary  for  their  comple- 
tion have  dropped  from  sight,  never  to  reappear; 
death  and  circumstance  intrude  upon  our  expec- 
tation of  what  is  fit  and  appropriate.    Life  is  in- 


/ 


262  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

artistic;  yet  to  convey  a  sense  of  life's  incomplete- 
ness and  inadequacy  is  in  itself  an  artistic  effect, 
if  deliberately  designed,  and  such  stories  as  those 
of  Nevinson  arouse  no  thought  of  an  inadequate 
technic  or  a  lack  of  skill.  An  untrained  writer 
might  through  sheer  inability  fail  to  round  ofif  his 
story  in  accordance  with  its  terms.  But  the 
efifect  upon  the  reader  would  then  be  different. 
The  unfinished  ending,  if  it  is  to  be  effective,  must 
appear  to  be  designed  and  not  the  result  of  mis- 
chance. The  French,  who  have  mastered  this 
seemingly  artless  type  of  narrative,  call  stories  of 
the  kind  ''bits  of  life."  Their  tone  is  perfectly 
natural,  and  the  effect  that  of  reaHty  vividly  set 
forth.  A  high  degree  of  selection  is,  of  course, 
the  basis  of  this  effect,  though  the  reason  for  that 
selection  is  not  obvious. 

It  would  seem,  then,  that  an  author  may  vio- 
late any  of  the  structural  conventions  which  we 
have  so  painstakingly  set  down,  provided  his 
story  purpose  demand  it  and  he  pitch  his  story 
to  the  right  key.  But  his  violation  must  be  de- 
liberate, for  a  preconceived  effect.  If  it  is  not, 
the  story  will  appear  ineffectual  and  inadequate; 
his  ignorance  of  his  craft  will  be  certain  at  some 
place  to  show. 

I  shall  cite  as  my  concluding  illustration  a 
story  of  high  artistry  which,  though  it  violates 
certain  of  the  conventional  principles  of  structure, 


UNITY  OF  TONE  263 

succeeds  admirably,  as  it  seems  to  me,  in  achiev- 
ing unity  of  tone.  The  story  is  Stevenson's  Will 
o'Jhe  Mill. 

^  The  action  covers  the  entire  Hfetime  of  a  man, 
a  theme  which  we  previously  declared  to  be  un- 
fitted for  a  short  story.'  Space  is  necessary  to  de- 
velop character,  and  this  a  short  story  has  not. 
But  though  Will  o"  the  Mill  is  the  story  of  a  man's  "~7 
life,  there  is  no  attempt  made  to  develop  a  com-  ' 
plex  character.  The  story  is  concerned  with  but 
one  of  Will's  problems,  which  is  this :  Is  happiness 
to  be  won  by  a  life  of  action  or  of  contemplation? 
Will  is  a  contemplative  character.  He  never 
goes  far  from  the  mountain  valley  in  which  he 
was  born,  though  from  it  he  looks  upon  the  sea- 
ward plain  and  the  cities  of  men,  with  all  the  ac- 
tivities which  these  suggest.  Echoes  of  Hf e  occa- 
sionally disturb  the  quiet  valley.  An  army  once 
passes  through  and  vanishes,  never  to  return. 
Travellers  put  up  for  a  time  and  go  their  way. 
Of  the  hfe  beyond  the  valley  Will  knows  only  by 
hearsay,  and  he  ponders  a  bit  wistfully  what  he 
learns.  Of  human  life  near  at  home  he  knows 
little  through  experience.  He  is  once  in  love  but 
so  placidly  that  marriage  seems  to  him  undesir- 
able, and  the  girl,  though  she  loves  him,  marries 
somebody  else.  After  this  he  still  remains  in  his 
valley  home  and  evolves  his  philosophy  of  Hfe: 
that  the  strangeness  of  Hfe  lies  within  himself, 


264  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

that  adventure  is  of  the  spirit,  and  not  to  be 
found  among  the  things  of  the  earth. 

It  is  the  emphasis  upon  and  constant  recur- 
rence of  this  idea  which  chiefly  unifies  the  story, 
though  the  freedom  from  specific  incident  and 
situation,  the  unity  of  place,  and  the  lack  of 
sharp  transitions  in  time  all  contribute  to  a  uni- 
iied  effect.  The  narrative  and  dialogue  are 
pitched  to  the  same  key  of  simplicity.  A  de- 
scription of  the  sea,  for  a  sight  of  which  Will 
longs,  is  given,  not  in  the  words  of  the  author,  but 
in  the  simple  and  artless  language  of  the  Miller. 
So,  throughout,  simpHcity  is  the  key-note,  and  the 
tone  is  uniform.  The  effect  is  powerful,  partly 
because  of  this  and  partly  because  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  theme,  which  is  close  to  every  one — 
the  query:  What  is  the  end  of  Kfe,  and  how  shall 
a  man  best  conduct  himself  therein? 

Unity  of  tone  is,  to  repeat,  the  chief  of  all  uni- 
ties, for  its  purpose  is  to  make  upon  the  reader  a 
single  emotional  effect.  It  demands  that  the 
emotion  of  the  writer  dominate  and  suffuse  his 
theme,  that  it  be  in  accord  with  that  theme.  It 
demands  that  the  writer  clearly  know  his  purpose 
before  he  begins  to  write,  and  that  he  bend  all  his 
energies  to  it.  What  the  tone  may  be  is  as  vari- 
ous as  are  the  emotions. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  STORY 
WRITING 

So  far  as  I  am  aware,  little  has  been  written  to 
reveal  the  actual  mental  processes  incident  to 
story  composition.  Brain,  emotion,  and  imagina- 
tion working  in  harmony  upon  a  theme  achieve 
a  result,  and,  behold !  a  story.  But  this  is  all  too 
indefinite.  What  we  desire  is  to  follow  the  actual 
mental  steps,  to  trace  the  false  starts,  to  analyze 
the  reasons  which  led  to  the  acceptance  of  one 
idea  or  the  rejection  of  another;  to  decide,  if  pos- 
sible, upon  some  economical  procedure  by  follow- 
ing which  we  can  ourselves,  without  waste  of 
energy,  contrive  an  effective  story. 

Authors  have  unfortunately  left  little  for  our 
guidance.  Perhaps  they  fear  to  show  us  the 
gross  process  of  story  development  lest  we  be  ap- 
palled at  the  crudity  of  it  and  no  longer  think  of 
the  author  as  a  person  somehow  different  from  the 
rest  of  us,  of  finer  mind  and  imagination,  working 
in  some  mysterious  and  inspired  way.  Or,  again, 
many  are  doubtless  forgetful  of  their  own 
chains  of  thought,  and,  once  the  story  is  created, 
265 


266  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

are  unable  to  retrace  the  steps  of  its  development. 
Certain  it  is  that  one  has  to  build  his  theory  of 
the  story  writer's  psychology  from  hints  gathered 
here  and  there,  and  from  such  rare  and  illuminat- 
ing documents  as  Poe's  Philosophy  of  Cofnposi- 
tion. 

The  imagination  under  the  dominance  of  an 
emotion  contrives  a  story  through  the  exercise 
of  the  intelligence,  which,  if  trained  by  critical 
study,  is  equipped  for  the  demands  to  which  it 
is  subjected.  It  must,  however,  have  a  theme 
upon  which  to  work,  for  it  cannat  function  in 
vacuo.  It  is  here  that  the  young  writer  meets  his 
initial  difficulty.  He  wishes  to  express  his  no- 
tions of  Ufe,  and  he  is  confident  that  he  has  much 
to  say,  provided  he  had  a  theme,  but  he  is  aghast 
when  for  the  first  time  he  realizes  that  he  has  no 
particular  story  to  tell.  His  first  need  is  some 
means  whereby  he  may  secure  a  story  theme. 

Ideas  for  stories,  it  is  true,  come  often  through 
the  workings  of  the  subconscious  mind.  Of  a 
sudden  and  without  warning  an  idea  pops  to  the 
surface  Hke  a  cork  freed  from  restraint,  and  the 
writer  congratulates  himself  upon  a  lucky  inspi- 
ration. Yet  this  is  a  chance  discovery;  often  he  is 
not  so  fortunate,  and  meanwhile  he  must  work. 
How  can  he  force  himself  to  acquire  themes?  I 
shall  elaborate  here  somewhat  the  discussion 
upon  story  ideas  to  be  found  in  Chapter  X.     I 


PSYCHOLOGY  267 

assume,  of  course,  that  my  mind  works  much  as 
any  one  else's  and  that  what  I  find  useful  may  be 
of  value  to  others.  It  is  possible  that  this  is  not, 
in  every  instance,  so,  but  I  have  no  other  recourse 
and  must  proceed  upon  this  assumption. 

Story  ideas  may  spring,  we  said,  from  incident, 
character,  place,  idea,  and  emotion.  The  theme 
for  any  of  these  may  arise  spontaneously  in  the 
mind  as  the  result  of  associations  which  we  can- 
not analyze.  If  it  does  not,  we  must  resort  to 
various  expedients.  For  the  moment  I  shall  con- 
fine myself  to  the  story  of  incident  and  enumerate 
several  devices  whereby  a  plot  may  be  secured. 

I  may  first  go  to  other  stories  or  plays  and 
borrow  a  plot.  This  method  has  the  sanction  of 
Shakespeare,  who  sought  his  plots  in  novels,  his- 
tories, and  other  plays,  often  combining  several 
from  diverse  sources,  modifying  as  he  deemed 
best,  and  in  the  end  creating  a  new  thing.  His 
originality  lay  not  so  much  in  devising  incidents 
and  contriving  action  as  in  imagining  appropri- 
ate characters;  did  his  plays  not  reveal  an  insight 
into  human  nature  surpassing  that  of  his  con- 
temporaries, and  a  style  more  beautiful  and 
varied  than  theirs,  he  would  not  be  regarded  as 
their  superior  upon  the  sole  point  of  plot  con- 
struction. 

I  may,  then,  take  such  a  story  as  Cinderella,  or 
Patient  Griselda,  or  a  poem  such  as  The  Ancient 


268  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Mariner,  or  Andrea  del  Sarto,  or  a  story  from 
Boccaccio,  and  modernize  it.  This  means  that 
I  invent  new  characters,  situations,  and  settings 
which  will  make  the  old  theme  new  and  different. 
Or,  again,  I  may  pick  up  the  latest  magazine  and 
with  a  story  theme  taken  therefrom  devise  a  vari- 
ant which,  when  I  have  done,  will  bear  no  resem- 
blance to  the  original.  Again,  I  may  utilize  some 
chance  incident  which  I  have  heard  related,  or  I 
may  turn  to  the  newspaper  for  an  idea.  My  con- 
cern is  with  the  starting-point.  Given  a  point  of 
departure,  my  imagination  under  guidance  can 
spin  the  story. 

Let  me  take  a  specific  instance.  I  once  read  a 
newspaper  item  to  the  effect  that  a  maiden  lady, 
deceased,  had  left  all  her  property  to  be  devoted 
to  the  care  of  her  pet  cat.  This  is  a  somewhat 
unusual  procedure,  and  visions  of  disappointed 
and  irate  relatives  hovered  in  the  background  as 
I  read.  Suppose  the  cat  left  to  the  care  of  one  of 
these,  he  to  spend  the  income  upon  its  mainte- 
nance, subject,  of  course,  to  legal  supervision.  It 
is  to  his  apparent  advantage  to  prolong  the  life 
of  the  cat.  Suppose  him  tempted  to  substitute 
a  second  cat  surreptitiously  upon  the  death  of  the 
first.  Here  is  a  nice  point  of  ethics,  involving 
some  interesting  psychology.  But  further  pos- 
sibilities suggest  themselves.  The  disposition  of 
the  property,  once  the  cat  is  dead,  is  known  only 


PSYCHOLOGY  269 

to  the  lawyer.  The  relative  naturally  supposes 
that  it  will  not  come  to  him.  He  substitutes  the 
second  cat,  maintains  the  fraud  as  long  as  he 
dares,  and  in  the  end  discovers  that  the  property 
is  his,  that  had  he  been  honest  he  would  have 
been  the  gainer.  Or  a  second  ending  is  possible : 
let  him  resist  temptation  and  be  rewarded  for 
his  honesty.  From  a  small  but  definite  begin- 
ning it  has  not  been  difficult  to  devise  a  plot  as 
good  as  that  of  many  a  story  we  read  in  the 
magazines. 

A  likely  storehouse  for  story  themes  is,  I  have 
always  thought,  legal  records.  All  human  activ- 
ities come  at  last  to  court.  All  manner  of  stories 
are  suggested  there,  and  were  I  in  need  of  a 
theme  I  should  seek  one  of  the  many  published 
records  of  cases.  The  theme  I  selected  might 
bear  little  relation  to  the  subsequent  story,  but 
it  would  be  a  definite  starting-point,  and  that  is 
my  immediate  concern.  Collections  of  fables, 
folklore,  poetry,  biography,  and  the  like  might 
serve  my  purpose  equally  well. 

Character  themes  I  discussed  somewhat  at 
length  in  a  previous  chapter.  The  source  again 
is  observation  or  literature.  I  may  borrow  a 
character  as  did  Turgenieff  or  select  some  person 
I  know,  simplifying  to  secure  consistency  and 
brevity.  My  situations  I  shall  devise  to  set  the 
character  forth  adequately. 


270  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Scene,  too,  I  have  discussed  elsewhere.  Do 
not  imagine  that  foreign  or  unusual  experience  is 
necessary  to  a  story  of  this  type.  What  manner 
of  life  may  be  appropriate  to  the  Httle  house  on 
the  corner,  to  the  apartment  opposite?  What 
story  will  convey  my  sense  of  desolation  as  I  con- 
template the  ragged  and  mean  outskirts  of  a  great 
city?  What  will  express  a  type  of  life  suited 
to  the  tawdry  or  respectable  mansion  on  the 
avenue?  Each  of  these  is  food  for  the  imagina- 
tion, and,  though  the  resulting  story  bear  but 
little  resemblance  to  the  initial  suggestion,  this 
has  served  its  purpose,  none  the  less,  in  stimu- 
lating invention. 

Stories  of  idea  were  considered  at  sufficient 
length  in  another  place.  Their  source  is,  again, 
a  generalization  based  upon  experience,  or  an 
inspiration  derived  from  reading.  I  should  be 
careful  to  select  one  which  is  of  genuine  interest 
to  me,  for  otherwise  I  court  failure.  To  be  truly 
original  in  this  field  I  should  be  something  of  a 
philosopher,  for  if  I  do  not  genuinely  hold  the 
idea  which  I  seek  to  express,  the  resulting  story 
will  be  cold  and  reveal  too  openly  the  source  from 
which  I  derived  it.  None  the  less  the  starting- 
point  may  be  the  thought  of  another,  provided  it 
fire  me  with  speculations  of  my  own. 

I  have  chosen  to  base  my  plot  illustration  for 
this  chapter  upon  a  story  idea  which  springs 


PSYCHOLOGY  271 

simply  from  the  determination  to  arouse  in  the 
reader  a  specific  emotion.  I  have  done  this  for 
the  reason  that  the  impulse  here  is  of  the  slight- 
est, the  choice  a  mere  exercise  of  the  judgment. 
The  development  in  the  first  stages,  therefore,  is 
almost  purely  intellectual  and  should  show  to 
some  degree  how  the  imagination  may  be  guided 
into  channels  wherein  it  will  work  with  the  maxi- 
mum of  economy  and  effect.  The  difficulty  in 
story  writing  is  not  to  imagine  but  to  imagine 
effectively,  that  is,  to  imagine  in  such  a  way  as 
to  accomplish  a  predetermined  purpose.  To  do 
this  the  imagination  must  be  held  in  check  until 
the  story  theme  has  been  outlined  with  some 
completeness. 

I  select  my  theme,  fear,  because  this  is  a 
powerful  passion,  one  universal  and  compelling. 
What  are  the  ideas  associated  with  fear?  The 
following  present  themselves: 

Death,  danger,  the  unknown,  the  supernat- 
ural, fear  for  another,  ridicule. 

I  think  also  of  associated  devices:  night,  lonely 
situation,  criminal  or  savage  men,  war,  ghosts, 
and  the  like. 

Doubtless  there  are  many  more  associated 
ideas,  but  invention  fails  for  the  moment,  and  I 
review  the  Hst  to  see  what  I  can  make  of  it.  I 
recognize  here  the  conventional  elements  of  many 
stories,  some  of  which  I  recall  specifically.     Still 


272  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

I  am  dissatisfied.  Doubtless  a  new  and  effective 
story  can  be  built  of  the  old  materials,  but  I  de- 
sire something  fresher,  something  which  I  can 
seize  upon  with  interest.  Is  there  no  more  com- 
pelling fear  than  any  of  these?  The  thought  is 
illuminating.  Surely  the  great  fear  is  a  man's  fear 
of  himself.  I  remember  moments  when  I  feared 
greatly  that  I  should  make  a  fool  of  myself,  that 
I  should  say  or  do  something  I  didn't  intend.  I 
have  feared,  too,  that  my  will  might  become  pow- 
erless and  I  mad.  Here  are  various  themes  more 
vital  and  less  hackneyed  than  those  first  suggested. 

How  then  shall  I  make  use  of  self-fear  as  a  story 
motive?  Shall  I  simply  analyze  the  emotion, 
setting  it  forth  in  trivial  incident?  Great  writers 
have  done  this,  but  it  calls  for  greater  power  than 
I  possess.  I  need  to  devise  action — a  plot.  What, 
then,  if  some  one  inspire  this  fear  in  another  for 
some  purpose — revenge,  perhaps?  This  appeals 
to  me.  I  shall  conceive  of  a  man  playing  upon 
the  emotions  of  another  to  revenge  himself  for 
some  wrong.  The  victim  may  have  succeeded  in 
rivalry  for  a  woman;  his  enemy  may  be,  osten- 
sibly, his  friend,  as  intimacy  is  essential  if  the 
victim  is  to  be  played  upon. 

The  means  is  to  be  subtle  suggestion,  the  vic- 
tim a  trusting  and  honorable  person  unaware 
that  he  is  being  influenced.  It  remains  then  to 
devise  situations.     I  thought  first  of  the  follow- 


PSYCHOLOGY  273 

ing:  the  victim  is  to  be  a  doctor  attendant  upon 
a  relative  who  is  hopelessly  ill  and  who  desires 
death.  The  doctor  may  profit  by  a  bequest 
when  the  relative  dies.  Suggestion  tempts  the 
doctor  to  give  his  patient  the  means  of  suicide. 
He  fights  the  thought,  and  the  fear  of  himself  be- 
comes a  nightmare. 

I  did  not  like  this  plot,  for  it  appealed  to  me 
as  conventional.  Surely  I  had  read  stories  with 
this  theme.  I  must  seek  a  better.  Here  is  a  pos- 
sibility I  had  ignored.  What  of  the  woman  for 
whom  the  men  had  been  rivals?  The  loser  would 
wish  above  all  things  to  lower  the  husband  in  the 
eyes  of  the  wife.  To  make  him  act  dishonorably, 
to  reveal  in  him  forces  which  the  wife  had  never 
suspected,  would  be  a  fitting  revenge.  The  theme 
has  now  changed  somewhat,  but  no  matter,  for 
we  have  a  story  in  sight.  A  difiiculty  arises, 
however,  at  this  point.  I  do  not  wish  the  hus- 
band to  be  a  really  dishonorable  man.  What, 
then,  am  I  to  do?  I  fall  back  upon  psychology. 
All  of  us,  I  reflect,  have  base  thoughts  which  we 
suppress,  are  subject  to  temptations  which  we 
resist,  but  of  which  we  are  none  the  less  ashamed. 
We  are  debased  in  our  own  eyes  that  we  should 
harbor  them,  rather  than  glad  of  our  power  to 
overcome  them.  Let  us  suppose  that  the  hus- 
band does  not  grasp  this  fact  and  that  under  the 
influence  of  suggestion  he  fancies  his  nature  de- 


274  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

caying.  He  is  afraid  he  will  show  himself  in 
what  he  fancies  are  his  true  colors  and  thus  lose 
the  love  and  respect  of  his  wife.  Here  is  the  situ- 
ation, the  temptation  another  woman,  perhaps. 
The  denouement  must  be  the  husband's  confes- 
sions of  his  terror  of  self.  I  then  conceive  his 
wife  to  be  a  woman  of  understanding  who  has  long 
distrusted  her  husband's  supposed  friend  and  is 
able  to  put  two  and  two  together.  She  opens  his 
eyes  to  the  friend's  poisonous  suggestions.  This 
development  has  forced  me  to  outline  my  charac- 
ters with  some  definiteness.  I  feel  that  in  time  they 
will  become  for  me  distinct  and  individual  persons. 

We  have  now  to  devise  scenes  and  to  select  a 
point  of  view,  setting,  class  of  life,  and  to  deter- 
mine the  tone.  At  the  outset  I  am  troubled  by 
the  first  story  I  planned,  that  of  the  doctor.  The 
very  conception  of  the  story  suggested  the  shadow 
of  a  scene.  I  saw  dimly  the  doctor  looking  upon 
his  hopeless  patient  and  tempted  to  permit  him 
the  means  of  suicide.  That  scene,  slight  as  it  is, 
suffices  to  distract  me  as  I  seek  to  imagine  other 
situations  appropriate  to  my  altered  story.  I 
must  beware  of  hampering  myself  in  like  fashion 
a  second  time.  I  must  decide  first  upon  desira- 
ble situations  before  I  let  my  imagination  make 
them  real  to  me,  for  it  is  very  hard  to  erase  any- 
thing which  has  once  been  definitely  conceived. 

Let  me  first  determine  the  point  of  view.  Upon 


PSYCHOLOGY  275 

a  hasty  consideration  I  dismiss  the  characters  as 
unsuited  to  tell  the  story,  for  my  theme  demands 
that  my  reader  become  acquainted  with  hidden 
motives.  Some  one  who  knows  the  thoughts  of 
all  the  characters  seems  best,  the  omniscient  au- 
thor, therefore.  Yet  I  do  not  wish  to  tell  every- 
thing. Suggestion  will  be  a  powerful  aid  in  mak- 
ing the  situations  and  characterization  telling. 
I  must  write  as  one  with  qualified  omniscience, 
understanding  but  one  of  the  characters  inti- 
mately. Again,  on  second  thought,  I  might  wish 
to  moralize  a  bit,  but  don't  wish  to  do  so  in  my 
own  person.  I  revert  to  the  first  possibility,  that 
of  the  actor-narrator.  How  can  any  such  be  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  facts  the  reader  should 
know?  Suppose  he  doesn't  tell  how  he  came  to 
know  so  much?  Can  we  imagine  some  one  in- 
venting the  story,  or,  better,  intimating  that  he 
was  in  some  undefined  way  connected  with  it? 
Perhaps  he  knew  all  the  participants,  one  of 
whom  confessed  to  him.  Or  suppose  him  one  of 
the  men  involved,  the  instigator  of  the  situation, 
a  man  of  keen  insight  though  conscienceless.  He 
may  seek  relief  from  his  sense  of  guilt  by  anony- 
mous confession.  This  is  true  to  human  nature, 
and,  if  the  truth  is  but  hinted  at,  envelops  the 
story  in  suggestion. 

Who,  then,  shall  be  the  centre  of  action?    Ob- 
viously, if  the  narrator  is,  as  suggested,  a  par- 


276  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

tidpant,  he  will  unconsciously  dwell  on  his  own 
thoughts  and  observations;  we  shall  see  the  story- 
through  his  eyes.  Therefore  he  must  be  the  cen- 
tre of  action.  There  are  difficulties  here,  for  he 
must  be  keen  to  read  in  others  what  we  must 
know  for  an  intelligent  grasp  of  the  story.  But 
difficulties  of  some  sort  are  inherent  in  all  points 
of  view. 

The  tone  must  be  serious.  We  have  departed 
so  far  from  our  initial  impulse  that  we  seek  no 
longer  to  arouse  a  crude  emotion  of  fear.  Rather 
we  wish  to  stir  the  reader  to  thoughtful  intro- 
spection, to  make  him  speculate  on  problems  of 
conduct.  Our  tone  will  be  one  of  moral  gravity 
seeking  to  arouse  a  thoughtful  self-analysis. 

What  is  the  state  of  the  problem  to  this  point? 
We  have  a  story  told  by  a  participant  of  the 
action,  this  suggested  only.  He  seeks  to  revenge 
himself  upon  his  successful  rival  by  stirring  him  to 
a  fear  of  self.  The  victim  ultimately  confesses  to 
his  wife,  who  forgives  him,  and  the  enemy  is  cast 
into  outer  darkness.  This  is  a  concise  statement 
of  the  result  of  much  analysis,  but  by  reason  of 
the  thought  processes  by  which  we  arrived  at  it, 
it  is  far  more  significant  than  had  it  been  given  us 
out  of  hand  by  some  one  else.  We  have  con- 
ceived characters  with  some  definiteness  and 
have  found  much  to  write  about  on  the  way. 
We  have  the  materials  for  a  story. 


PSYCHOLOGY  277 

First  of  all  we  have  the  initial  scene.  A  num- 
ber of  men  are  gathered  together  relating  experi- 
ences. Fear  is  discussed,  and  the  opening  for  the 
narrative  provided.  The  necessary  exposition 
can  be  set  forth  in  the  words  of  the  speaker. 
The  class  of  life  has  been  decided  by  the  nature 
of  the  story.  It  must  be  the  middle  or  upper 
class,  for  the  character  of  the  action  is  intellec- 
tual. The  persons  of  the  story  must  not  be  too 
primitive,  such  as  speak  their  thoughts  at  once, 
but  such  as  reflect. 

I  foresee  a  difficulty  in  the  husband's  confes- 
sion. How  can  the  wife  be  brought  to  a  right 
understanding  of  the  truth?  Obviously  her  sus- 
picions of  the  friend  must  be  aroused,  and  she 
must  be  observant  of  many  things  before  the  con- 
fession. The  other  woman  may  be  a  guest  in  the 
house,  a  relative,  perhaps,  and  the  action  take 
place  there.  This  has  the  advantage  of  unity. 
The  scenes  may  be  quiet  and  domestic,  a  dinner, 
a  conversation  or  two,  several  interviews  of  the 
man  with  his  friend — essential  to  the  necessary 
suggestion.  That  is  all  we  need  in  the  way  of 
incident.  The  effectiveness  of  the  story  will  de- 
pend upon  the  elaboration,  upon  dialogue  chiefly. 

As  I  review  this  analysis  I  am  struck  with  the 
remoteness  of  the  conclusion  from  the  inception 
of  the  theme,  and  with  my  own  moralizing  tend- 
ency.   The  bent  of  my  mind  has  revealed  itself 


278  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

at  every  turn,  and  I  have  made  of  my  materials 
what  is  of  interest  to  me.  Another  mind  begin- 
ning at  the  same  point  would  have  arrived  at  a 
story  utterly  different.  But  though  I  have  not 
done  as  I  intended  at  the  outset,  I  have  arrived 
with  a  fair  degree  of  definiteness  at  a  possible 
story,  one  which,  if  well  enough  elaborated  will 
be  worth  the  doing.  This  demonstrates  that  the 
method  I  have  employed  is  of  some  value. 

The  story  is,  of  course,  far  from  done,  though 
for  purposes  of  illustration  I  drop  it  at  this  point. 
It  must  be  laid  aside  for  a  while  and  allowed  to 
grow.  Story  growth  is  an  interesting  thing, 
though  not  to  be  definitely  analyzed.  It  is 
mostly  a  subconscious  process  and  requires  time. 
Every  little  while  I  shall  turn  to  my  story  and 
attempt  to  visualize  the  characters  or  to  elabo- 
rate a  bit  of  dialogue.  It  is  as  though  the  story 
were  a  seed  sprouting  in  darkness,  at  which  I  look 
occasionally  to  note  progress.  I  can  observe  its 
growth  but  I  cannot  explain  it.  Of  this  I  am  sure : 
in  time  it  will  cease  to  be  a  story,  an  invented 
thing,  and  will  become  real.  I  shall  have  been 
familiar  with  it  for  so  long  that  I  shall  be  un- 
able to  distinguish  it  from  fact.  When  it  reaches 
this  stage  of  development  I  may  begin  to  write 
upon  it. 

To  clothe  it  in  words  is  a  forcing  process.  By 
putting  pen  to  paper  I  stimulate  thought  and 


PSYCHOLOGY  279 

discover  what  my  mind  has  been  doing  with  the 
theme  while  I  have  left  it.  The  pen  point  serves 
to  precipitate  and  crystallize  ideas  unrecognized 
until  the  moment  of  writing.  Each  draught  of  my 
story  will  be  a  little  more  elaborate  and  definite 
than  the  last.  Finally,  I  shall  be  prepared  to 
write  it  afresh  in  its  ultimate  form,  ignoring  all 
previous  attempts,  for  the  story  will  lie  in  my 
mind  definite  and  complete.  I  need  not,  of 
course,  set  pen  to  paper  to  bring  it  to  this  final 
state.  I  may  have  carried  it  in  my  memory 
throughout.  All  depends  upon  my  individual 
idiosyncrasies,  the  manner  in  which  I  work 
best. 

Rarely  will  a  story  written  in  the  first  creative 
impulse  carry  conviction.  Even  though  definite 
and  well  constructed,  it  will  be,  somehow,  thin. 
It  will  lack  the  power  of  suggestion,  that  is,  of  re- 
lation to  the  life  about  it,  which  we  saw  to  be  de- 
sirable. This  power  of  suggestion  will  be  lacking 
because  the  story  is,  in  truth,  without  it,  the  char- 
acters not  conceived  with  the  necessary  fulness, 
nor  the  story  as  but  a  single  incident  related  to 
the  larger  whole  of  life.  The  dearth  of  mate- 
rial will  be  apparent.  If  enough  time  is  given  for 
a  proper  growth,  this  defect  will  be  remedied. 
Unconsciously  the  author  will  endow  the  story 
with  a  background  and  make  the  incidents  he 
tells  significant  of  more  which  he  suppresses. 


28o  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

I  have  endeavored  to  make  this  discussion  as 
specific  as  possible  and  have,  therefore,  elabo- 
rated my  illustration  at  what  would,  otherwise, 
be  undue  length.  I  cannot  pretend  that  all 
stories  are  composed  after  the  manner  I  have 
outlined,  but  what  has  been  set  down  may,  none 
the  less,  afford  some  assistance  to  my  readers  in 
the  solution  of  their  difficulties.  It  seems  to  me 
possible  to  develop  a  method  of  story-construc- 
tion which  shall  be  to  some  degree  free  from  the 
hit-or-miss  practice  of  letting  the  imagination 
roam  at  will.  The  imagination  is  the  most  vital 
of  the  faculties  involved,  but  without  guidance 
it  may  lead  us  nowhere  or  plunge  us  into  diffi- 
culties which  the  critical  intelligence  will  find 
almost  insuperable.  The  story  mould  once  cast 
is  not  easily  broken.  It  is,  therefore,  well  to  con- 
struct it  on  sound  lines. 

At  this  point  of  our  discussion  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  indicate  the  value  of  study  and  the 
mastery  of  critical  principles.  Native  endow- 
ment, necessary  as  it  is,  will  not  suffice  of  itself. 
The  imagination  must  be  disciplined  and  work 
at  the  direction  of  a  guiding  intelligence.  Once 
the  resources  of  story  method  are  so  mastered 
that  the  writer  works  freely  with  them  he  is  con- 
scious of  power.  There  will  be  a  time  when  they 
seem  to  hamper  him,  for  he  will  be  unduly  con- 
scious of  them,  and  subservient  to  their  require- 


PSYCHOLOGY  281 

ments.  But  he  can  gain  freedom  only  through 
them.  If  he  ignores  them  as  academic  and  dead- 
ening, his  mind  will  never  receive  the  discipline 
essential  to  good  work.  Nor,  when  he  is  unsuc- 
cessful, will  he  know  the  cause  of  failure.  The 
true  artist  is  always  keenly  interested  in  the 
mechanics  of  his  trade,  in  all  its  technicahties. 
It  is  the  sentimentalist  and  he  who  shirks  work 
who  ignores  the  example  and  the  advice  of  others. 
A  writer  who  relies  upon  inspiration  will  seldom 
accomplish  much. 

Of  the  methods  of  novelists  and  short-story 
writers  hints  are  to  be  found  here  and  there  in 
letters  and  biographies.  To  Poe's  method  in  The 
Raven  I  have  already  made  reference.  Haw- 
thorne, it  is  apparent  from  his  note-book,  worked 
often  from  an  abstract  conception  to  the  story 
which  embodied  it.  A  passage  from  George 
Eliot's  letters  reveals  a  like  method  of  work. 
Writing  to  Frederic  Harrison,  she  says: 

That  is  a  tremendously  difficult  problem  you 
have  laid  before  me;  and  I  think  you  see  its  diffi- 
culties, though  they  can  hardly  press  upon  you 
as  they  do  on  me,  who  have  gone  through  again 
and  again  the  severe  efforts  of  trying  to  make 
certain  ideas  thoroughly  incarnate,  as  if  they  re- 
vealed themselves  to  me  first  in  the  flesh  and  not 
in  the  spirit.  I  think  aesthetic  teaching  is  the 
highest  of  all  teaching,  because  it  deals  with  Y\if* 
in  its  highest  complexity.     But  if  it  ceases  to  be 


282  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

purely  aesthetic — if  it  lapses  anywhere  from  the 
picture  to  the  diagram — it  becomes  the  most 
offensive  of  all  teaching.  .  .  .  Consider  the  sort 
of  agonizing  labor  to  an  EngKsh-fed  imagination 
to  make  out  a  sufficiently  real  background  for  the 
desired  picture, — to  get  breathing  individual 
forms,  and  group  them  in  the  needful  relations, 
so  that  the  presentation  will  lay  hold  on  the  emo- 
tions as  human  experience, — will,  as  you  say, 
** flash'*  conviction  on  the  world  by  means  of 
aroused  sympathy. 

A  like  progress  from  the  abstract  conception  to 
the  concrete  story  is  to  be  noted  in  at  least  one 
of  Stevenson's  stories,  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde. 
We  are  told  in  his  biography  that  the  theme 
which  he  endeavored  to  clothe  in  story  form  was 
that  of  the  dual  personality  of  man,  the  good  and 
evil  spirits  which  struggle  for  mastery.  Thus 
stated  the  theme  is  abstract;  but  so  well  realized 
is  the  story  that  its  moral  is  for  most  readers 
an  afterthought.  The  plot,  the  incidents,  are  in 
themselves  compelling. 

Turgenieflf's  method  I  have  referred  to  in  an- 
other place.  With  him  character  was  the  start- 
ing-point. Perhaps  the  "born  story-tellers "  pur- 
sue a  less  self-conscious  method.  For  them, 
morals  and  ideas  are  secondary.  Incidents  and 
emotions  are  their  game,  and  doubtless  they  ex- 
perience less  difficulty  in  realizing  their  concep- 
tions than  do  writers  who  make  use  of  the  story 


PSYCHOLOGY  283 

form  for  a  philosophical  purpose.    One  can  but 
guess  at  their  methods  of  work. 

It  is  self-evident,  I  take  it,  that  with  all  our 
talk  of  story  methods  and  economical  processes 
of  work  we  have  shed  little  hght  upon  the  heart 
of  the  mystery,  that  hinted  at  in  the  passage 
quoted  from  George  Eliot.  We  may  outHne  a 
story  by  an  exercise  of  the  intelligence  and  devise 
a  structure  which  will  meet  our  critical  tests.  But 
this  outline  is  not  a  story  until  its  abstractions 
become  flesh-and-blood  reahties.  This  is  the 
most  difficult  step  of  all.  A  great  writer  such  as 
George  Eliot  confesses  her  weakness  here,  and 
for  the  best  of  story-tellers  this  part  of  the  crea- 
tive process  must  be  difficult.  We  cannot  an- 
alyze the  mysterious  transformation  which  the 
imagination  in  some  way  effects,  that  whereby  a 
character  real  as  life  is  made  to  talk  and  act 
convincingly.  Our  method  can  take  us  to  this 
point  and  no  further. 


CHAPTER  XV 
CONCLUSION 


[' 


At  the  outset  of  our  study  we  declared  a  con- 
cise yet  adequate  definition  of  the  short  story  to 
be  impossible.    We  chose  instead  to  consider  the  \ 
underlying  principles  of  all  narrative  writing,  j 
pointing  out  that  the  shorter  the  story  the  more  ; 
exacting  became  the  selective  process  and  the  1 
more  unified  the  action,  place,  and  time^J^Loose-  \ 
ness  of  construction,  often  permissible  in  a  long 
narrative,  is,  in  the  short  story,  accompanied  by 
no  compensating  advantages.     The  writer  must  | 
bend  all  his  artistic  ingenuity  to  the  accomplish-  j 
ment  of  swift  and  emphatic  effects.  /Should  we  ] 
seek  a  loose  characterization  of  the  short  story  as 
distinguished  from  a  long  we  should  find  our 
terms  chiefly  in  the  chapter  devoted  to  unitv^  of 
tone/i  A  short  story  aims  at  a  single  effect:  the 
1  writer,  dominated  by  a  single  emotion,  endeav- 
ors so  to  devise  his  story  as  to  convey  this  and 
arouse  an  echo  of  it  in  his  readers.     In  a  longer 
narrative  the  writer  is  less  rigidly  bound,  and  in 
the  endeavor  to  arouse  a  variety  of  effects  may 
284 


CONCLUSION  285 

more  nearly  mirror  the  complexities  of  emotional 
life.  Definitions  more  precise  than  this  will  not 
profit  us. 

I  trust  that  from  our  discussion  of  principles  no 
reader  has  devised  for  his  guidance  any  inflexible 
body  of  rules.  One  does  not  achieve  a  good  story 
by  a  mere  adherence  to  precept.  Yet  a  knowl- 
edge of  possible  effects  and  the  means  whereby 
good  writers  have  attained  these  is  not  only  de- 
sirable but  essential.  The  power  of  self-criti- 
cism is  necessary  to  all  good  work.  Moreover,  it 
is  by  imitation  first  that  a  writer  attains  a  mas- 
tery of  his  craft;  later  he  may  come  to  the  point 
at  which  true  individual  expression  is  possible. 
The  most  original  of  geniuses  must  profit  by  the 
work  of  his  predecessors.  He  must  study,  an- 
alyze, and  imitate  before  he,  in  his  turn,  may 
achieve  originahty.  Most  of  us  never  reach  the 
final  stage,  but  even  so,  the  study  of  technic  is 
not  only  interesting  in  itself  but  valuable  in  that 
it  develops  a  power  of  discriminating  apprecia- 
tion and  thus  enhances  the  joys  of  reading. 

I  fancy  there  will  be  many  who  disagree  with 
this  assertion.  There  is  a  wide-spread  behef  in 
"inspiration"  which  I,  personally,  do  not  share. 
Writing  is  an  intellectual  exercise  which  may  be 
mastered  to  the  degree  of  the  native  intelligence 
of  the  student  just  as  may  law,  medicine,  or  any 
other  study.    Any  one  who  seeks  to  improve 


286  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

himself  in  it,  and  who  will  frankly  recognize  his 
own  defects,  may  do  much  to  develop  his  powers. 
I  wish  to  devote  a  Httle  space  to  the  elaboration 
of  this  idea. 

Granted  an  adequate  technic — that  is,  means 
of  expression  which,  as  we  have  seen,  is  the  re- 
sult of  study,  practice,  and  self-criticism— Kterary 
power  is  dependent  upon  freshness  of  impression 
and  truth  of  insight.  Observation  and  thought^ 
are  the  two  essentials.  All  of  us  see  and  think 
to  some  degree,  but  no  one  to  the  utmost  of  his 
innate  capacity.  We  permit  conventional  inter- 
pretations of  Hfe  both  to  dull  our  ability  to  see 
afresh  and  to  phrase  the  results  of  our  observa- 
tion. Most  of  us,  in  Stevenson's  phrase,  "swal- 
low the  universe  like  a  pill."  A  recognition  of 
our  own  conventional  natures  is  the  first  step  to 
freedom  and  power.  The  true  writer  is,  I  take 
it,  forever  in  a  state  of  wonder,  conscious  always 
of  the  infinite  variety  and  entertainment  which 
life  affords.  The  power  of  wonder,  or  freshness 
of  impression,  is  largely  a  gift  of  youth;  in  all  but 
strongly  individual  natures  it  dies  soon.  We  be- 
come with  the  years  at  home  with  life  and  find 
this  a  more  comfortable  state  than  the  more 
vivid  emotions  of  youth.  But  it  is  not  a  writer*s 
business  to  be  comfortable  but  to  see.  If  he 
would  see  freshly  he  must  force  himself  so  to  do. 
This  is  a  matter  of  will. 


CONCLUSION  287 

The  recognition  of  the  plasticity  of  one's  own 
nature,  of  the  dominance  of  the  will,  is  essential 
not  only  to  moral  but  to  artistic  growth.  I  may 
not,  to  be  sure,  make  of  myself  whatsoever  I 
choose,  but  I  may  approximate  my  desire,  ap- 
proach ever  nearer  to  it.  With  this  I  must,  per- 
force, be  content,  for  I  am  not  to  blame  that  my 
capacity  for  self-improvement  is  not  the  greatest. 
My  concern  is  the  development,  to  their  utmost, 
of  those  possibilities  I  possess. 

I  may  by  nature  be  unobservant.  If  I  recog- 
nize the  defect  I  may  force  myself  to  see  more  in 
the  world  about  me  than  I  have  hitherto  noted. 
The  power  will  grow  with  use,  and,  though  I  never 
develop  it  to  the  degree  of  another's  natural  en- 
dowment, I  have  yet  done  something.  Kim,  in 
Kipling's  story,  was  trained  to  observe  and  to  re- 
member. This  is  a  fictitious  instance,  to  be  sure, 
but  I  fancy  that  Kipling  drew  upon  his  own  expe- 
rience in  its  creation.  A  more  authentic  illustra- 
tion is  that  of  the  training  which  Maupassant 
underwent  at  the  hands  of  Flaubert.  No  small 
part  of  this  was  devoted  to  mere  visual  observa- 
tion, for  upon  perception  and  memory  much  lit- 
erary power  depends.  Hawthorne  made  use  of 
note-books  to  record  his  impressions.  How  wide- 
spread similar  practices  among  other  authors 
may  be  I  cannot  say,  but  the  merit  of  the  exer- 
cise is  self-evident.     If  I  am  slow  to  distinguish 


288  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  characteristics  of  sounds  or  to  note  the  play 
of  facial  expression,  I  can  remedy  the  defect 
somewhat  by  deliberate  attention.  It  is  not  a 
matter  which  calls  for  leisure  or  exceptional  op- 
portunity. The  materials  are  to  my  hand  if  I 
will  avail  myself  of  them. 

The  same  is  true  of  thought.  Most  of  us  are 
so  involved  by  the  routine  of  daily  hfe,  so  de- 
pendent upon  books  and  newspapers  for  our 
ideas,  that  the  habit  of  thought  is  undeveloped 
and  the  opportunity  for  its  exercise  seems  scant. 
Effort  is  required  if  we  are  to  react  upon  our  ex- 
perience and  form  individual  opinions.  If  we  are 
modest,  courage  is  necessary  if  we  are  to  find 
worth  in  opinions  so  formed.  Yet  a  man  may,  in 
all  humility,  recognize  his  ideas  to  be  inadequate 
and  yet  find  some  good  in  them.  If  he  is  to 
write  he  must  have  some  conceit  of  himself,  for 
otherwise  the  great  names  of  literature  will  op>- 
press  him  to  utter  silence.  Herein  Hes  the  dan- 
ger of  an  academic  training.  The  well-read  man 
thinks  that  everything  worth  the  saying  has  been 
said. 

But  are  ideas  essential  to  literary  power?  Are 
not  emotional  susceptibility  and  imagination  the 
chief  essentials?  In  poetry,  certainly,  originality 
of  thought  seems  to  be  secondary.  The  poet 
phrases  ideas  current  in  his  time;  what  is  de- 
manded of  him  is  power  of  expression.     In  fiction 


CONCLUSION  289 

this  is  not  true  to  so  great  an  extent.  In  its  best 
examples  fiction  is  increasingly  intellectualized. 
The  conventional  writer,  he  who  accepts  out- 
worn ideas,  is  less  and  less  a  power  in  his  gener- 
ation. I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  every  noveUst 
need  write  with  a  purpose,  but  he  should  at  least 
be  abreast  of  his  day  and,  in  so  far  as  he  can,  re- 
act upon  its  thought  with  ideas  of  his  own.  For 
ideas  determine  a  man's  attitude  toward  life,  and 
this  it  is  which  gives  his  work  originality.  The 
fiction  writer  should  read  thought-provoking 
books;  the  ideas  of  others  will  stimulate  his. 
History,  biography,  criticism,  philosophy,  and  all 
documents  which  report  life  at  first  hand;  the  re- 
ports of  observers  in  all  fields  of  life — travellers, 
missionaries,  and  social  workers — these  should 
constitute  his  reading.  The  skilful  fiction  writer 
not  only  observes  afield  but  also  studies  in  his 
library.  His  work  is  more  than  a  record  of  im- 
pressions.    It  is  a  comment  upon  life. 

Observation  and  thought  are  much,  but  sym- 
pathetic insight  into  the  lives  of  others  is  yet 
more.  This  is  nothing  but  imagination.  The 
unsympathetic  man  is  the  one  of  untrained  imag- 
ination; he  does  not  see  himself  in  his  neighbor's 
place,  and  so  is  not  moved  by  the  joy  and  sorrow 
of  those  about  him.  The  novelist  must  be  able 
to  enter  into  the  lives  of  his  characters,  and  that 
such  may  be  real  he  must  understand  the  lives  of 


290  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

those  about  him,  for  a  knowledge  of  life  is  a  guide 
to,  and  a  check  upon,  the  imagination.  Without 
this  check,  imagination  degenerates  into  fancy. 

Imagination,  leading  to  insight  and  sympathy, 
may  be  developed  somewhat  by  exercise.  A  val- 
uable practice  is  the  deliberate  creation  of  inci- 
dents and  circumstances  in  the  lives  of  others 
whom  we  know  but  slightly.  The  imagination 
is  constructive,  and  working  from  a  slight  basis 
of  observation  may  create  a  structure  logical  and 
true.  JMr.  Henry  James  relates  the  instance  of  a 
novelist  who  wrote  convincingly  of  the  hfe  of 
French  Protestants,  the  sole  basis  in  observation 
being  but  a  glimpse  into  a  home  of  this  class : 

...  I  remember  an  English  novelist,  a  woman 
of  genius,  telling  me  that  she  was  much  com- 
mended for  the  impression  she  had  managed  to 
give  in  one  of  her  tales  of  the  nature  and  way  of 
life  of  the  French  Protestant  youth.  She  had 
been  asked  where  she  learned  so  much  about  this 
recondite  being,  she  had  been  congratulated  on 
her  pecuUar  opportunities.  These  opportunities 
consisted  in  her  having  once,  in  Paris,  as  she 
ascended  a  staircase,  passed  an  open  door  where, 
in  the  household  of  a  pasteur,  some  of  the  young 
Protestants  were  seated  at  table  round  a  fin- 
ished meal.  The  glimpse  made  a  picture;  it 
lasted  only  a  moment,  but  that  moment  was  ex- 
perience. She  had  got  her  direct  personal  im- 
pression, and  she  turned  out  her  type.  She  knew 
what  youth  was,  and  what  Protestantism;  she 


CONCLUSION  291 

also  had  the  advantage  of  having  seen  what  it 
was  to  be  French,  so  that  she  converted  these 
ideas  into  a  concrete  image  and  produced  a  real- 
ity. Above  all,  however,  she  was  blessed  with 
the  faculty  which  when  you  give  it  an  inch  takes 
an  ell,  and  which  for  the  artist  is  a  much  greater 
source  of  strength  than  any  accident  of  residence 
or  of  place  in  the  social  scale.  The  power  to 
guess  the  unseen  from  the  seen,  to  trace  the  impli- 
cation of  things,  to  judge  the  whole  piece  by  the 
pattern,  the  condition  of  feeling  life  in  general  so 
completely  that  you  are  well  on  your  way  to 
knowing  any  particular  corner  of  it — this  cluster 
of  gifts  may  almost  be  said  to  constitute  experi- 
ence, and  they  occur  in  country  and  in  town,  and 
in  the  most  differing  stages  of  education.  If  ex- 
perience consists  of  impressions,  it  may  be  said 
that  impressions  are  experience,  just  as  (have  we 
not  seen  it?)  they  are  the  very  air  we  breathe. 
Therefore,  if  I  should  certainly  say  to  a  novice, 
"Write  from  experience  and  experience  only,"  I 
should  feel  that  this  was  rather  a  tantalising  mo- 
nition if  I  were  not  careful  immediately  to  add, 
''Try  to  be  one  of  the  people  on  whom  nothing  is 
lost."J 

Details  are  significant  of  a  greater  whole,  and 
from  a  remark,  a  glimpse  into  a  home  or  shop,  or 
an  exchange  of  glances,  I  may  create  an  imagina- 
tive structure  which  is  true  to  probability,  true, 
that  is,  to  the  nature  of  life  if  not  true  to  the  spe- 
cific instance.  Thus  the  ethnologist  may  from  a 
skull  determine  the  whole  nature,  physical  and 


292  ART  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

mental,  of  a  prehistoric  man;  or  the  paleontolo- 
gist from  a  single  bone  reconstruct  an  antedi- 
luvian monster.  The  imagination  in  such  an  ex- 
ercise is  guided  in  part  by  experience  and  in  part 
by  the  logical  sense.  The  story  writer  must  de- 
pend much  upon  it. 

Limitation  of  natural  endowment  is  sometimes 
no  greater  a  handicap  to  successful  work  than  a 
wealth  of  powers.  The  singer  with  the  glorious, 
natural  voice  is  under  no  necessity  of  enlarging 
his  resources.  Sheer  beauty  of  tone  will  carry 
him  over  his  difficulties.  The  less-gifted  singer  is 
obliged  to  supplement  his  voice  by  cultivating  a 
beautiful  enunciation,  by  developing  his  mu- 
sicianship, by  enlarging  his  resources  of  tone- 
color.  In  the  end  he  may  be  the  more  successful 
of  the  two  by  reason  of  his  shrewd  utilization  of 
all  his  powers  and  by  his  careful  avoidance  of 
monotony. 

My  readers  must  have  noted  the  many  in- 
stances in  which  I  have  cited  Stevenson  to  illus- 
trate this  or  that  point  in  construction.  Steven- 
son is  not  the  greatest  of  modern  writers;  his  work 
is  a  little  thin,  a  bit  self-conscious,  and  touches 
life  none  too  intimately.  But,  as  he  said  truly  of 
himself,  few  writers  with  so  limited  a  natural  en- 
dowment have  gone  so  far.  He  is,  therefore,  an 
inspiring  example.  The  pleasure  we  derive  from 
art  lies  in  the  sense  of  its  triimiph  over  difficulties 


CONCLUSION  293 

— ^in  form  and  materials,  as  in  the  sonnet  or  the 
sculptor's  marble — but  often,  in  the  very  nature 
of  the  artist.  The  story  that  Turner's  color 
sense  sprang  from  defective  vision  is  a  case  in 
point.  Only — and  the  point  cannot  be  overem- 
phasized— it  is  imperative  that  a  writer  early  de- 
termine his  limitations,  and  work  in  that  field  or 
medium  for  which  his  powers  may  suffice.  To  do 
this  requires  self-knowledge  and  the  study  of 
artistic  resources;  that  is  to  say,  technic. 


APPENDIX 

I  HAVE  included  Poe's  Philosophy  of  Composi- 
tion within  the  covers  of  this  book,  first,  because  my 
treatment  of  story  writing  owes  its  inspiration  in 
part  to  this  essay;  secondly,  because  Poe's  analysis 
of  his  manner  of  work  is  one  of  the  few  definite  and 
helpful  discussions  of  constructive  method  to  be 
found  in  English  literature.  Though  it  has  mainly 
to  do  with  The  Raven,  a  poem,  the  method  outlined 
is  equally  applicable  to  stories. 

Considerable  doubt  has  been  cast  upon  the  honesty 
of  Poe's  confession.  It  is  felt  by  many  that  the  cre- 
ative process  as  defined  by  Poe  is  altogether  too  in- 
tellectual to  be  in  accord  with  the  facts.  The  poet 
and  the  story  writer  surely  do  not  work  in  so  mathe- 
matical a  mood,  their  processes  of  thought  are  not  so 
coldly  critical;  emotional  rather  than  intellectual 
judgments  must,  we  think,  largely  determine  the 
formal  devices  of  expression. 

In  answer  to  this  criticism  we  have,  as  verification 
of  Poe's  statement,  his  poems  and  stories.  These 
are  in  my  judgment  a  confirmation  rather  than  a 
refutation  of  his  method.  His  poetry  lacks  that 
final  charm  which  eludes  analysis;  it  is  a  little  cold 
and  calculated.  So,  too,  with  his  stories.  They  are 
29s 


296  APPENDIX 

the  work  of  an  excellent  craftsman,  but  our  admira- 
tion for  the  technic  is  seldom  lost  in  a  complete 
emotional  surrender  to  the  story  itself.  That  this  is 
so  marks  a  defect,  certainly,  in  Poe's  art;  but  our  ap- 
preciation of  the  fact  should  not  blind  us  to  his  great 
and  obvious  merits. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION 

Charles  Dickens,  in  a  note  now  lying  before  me, 
alluding  to  an  examination  I  once  made  of  the  mech- 
anism of  "Barnaby  Rudge,"  says — "By  the  Vv-a}',  are 
you  aware  that  Godwin  wrote  his  'Caleb  Williams' 
backwards?  He  first  involved  his  hero  in  a  web  of 
difficulties,  forming  the  second  volume,  and  then,  for 
the  first,  cast  about  him  for  some  mode  of  account- 
ing for  what  had  been  done." 

I  cannot  think  this  the  precise  mode  of  procedure 
on  the  part  of  Godwin — and  indeed  what  he  himself 
acknowledges,  is  not  altogether  in  accordance  with 
Mr.  Dickens'  idea— but  the  author  of  "Caleb  Will- 
aams"  was  too  good  an  artist  not  to  perceive  the 
advantage  derivable  from  at  least  a  somewhat  simi- 
lar process.  Nothing  is  more  clear  than  that  every 
plot,  worth  the  name,  must  be  elaborated  to  its  de- 
nouement  before  anything  be  attempted  with  the 
pen.  It  is  only  with  the  denouement  constantly  in 
view  that  we  can  give  a  plot  its  indispensable  air  of 
consequence,  or  causation,  by  making  the  incidents 
and  especially  the  tone  at  all  points,  tend  to  the  de- 
velopment of  the  intention. 

There  is  a  radical  error,  I  think,  in  the  usual  mode 
of  constructing  a  story.  Either  history  affords  a 
thesis — or  one  is  suggested  by  an  incident  of  the 
day — or  at  best,  the  author  sets  himself  to  work  in 
the  combination  of  striking  events  to  form  merely 


APPENDIX  297 

the  basis  of  his  narrative — designing,  generally,  to 
fill  in  with  description,  dialogue,  or  autorial  com- 
ment, whatever  crevices  of  fact,  or  action,  may  from 
page  to  page,  render  themselves  apparent. 

I  prefer  commencing  with  the  consideration  of  an 
effect.  Keeping  originality  always  in  view — for  he  is 
false  to  himself  who  ventures  to  dispense  with  so 
obvious  and  so  easily  attainable  a  source  of  interest 
— I  say  to  myself,  in  the  first  place,  "  Of  the  innumer- 
able effects,  or  impressions,  of  which  the  heart,  intel- 
lect or  (more  generally)  the  soul  is  susceptible,  what 
one  shall  I,  on  the  present  occasion  choose?"  Hav- 
ing chosen  a  novel,  first,  and  secondly  a  vivid  effect, 
I  consider  whether  it  can  be  best  wrought  by  incident 
or  tone — whether  by  ordinary  incidents  and  pecuUar 
tone,  or  the  converse,  or  by  peculiarity  both  of  inci- 
dent and  tone — afterward  looking  about  me  (or 
rather  within)  for  such  combinations  of  event,  or 
tone,  as  shall  best  aid  me  in  the  construction  of  the 
effect. 

I  have  often  thought  how  interesting  a  magazine 
paper  might  be  written  by  any  author  who  would — 
that  is  to  say,  who  could — detail  step  by  step,  the 
processes  by  which  any  one  of  his  compositions  at- 
tained its  ultimate  point  of  completion.  Why  such  a 
paper  has  never  been  given  to  the  world,  I  am  at  a 
loss  to  say — but,  perhaps,  the  autorial  vanity  has  had 
more  to  do  with  the  omission  than  any  one  other 
cause.  Most  writers — poets  in  especial — prefer  hav- 
ing it  understood  that  they  compose  by  a  species  of 
fine  frenzy — an  ecstatic  intuition — and  would  posi- 
tively shudder  at  letting  the  public  take  a  peep  be- 
hind the  scenes,  at  the  elaborate  and  vacillating  cru- 
dities of  thought — at  the  true  purposes  seized  only 
at  the  last  moment — at  the  innumerable  glimpses  of 
idea  that  arrived  not  at  the  maturity  of  full  view — at 
the  fully  matured  fancies  discarded  in  despair  as  un- 


298  APPENDIX 

manageable — at  the  cautious  selections  and  rejec- 
tions— at  the  painful  erasures  and  interpolations — 
in  a  word,  at  the  wheels  and  pinions — the  tackle  for 
scene-shifting — the  step-ladders  and  demon  traps — 
the  cock's  feathers,  the  red  paint  and  the  black 
patches,  which,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred, 
constitute  the  properties  of  the  literary  histrio. 

I  am  aware,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  case  is 
by  no  means  common,  in  which  an  author  is  at  all  in 
condition  to  retrace  the  steps  by  which  his  conclu- 
sions have  been  attained.  In  general,  suggestions, 
having  arisen  pell-mell,  are  pursued  and  forgotten  in 
a  similar  manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  neither  sympathy  with 
the  repugnance  alluded  to,  nor,  at  any  time,  the  least 
difficulty  in  recalling  to  mind  the  progressive  steps 
of  any  of  my  compositions;  and  since  the  interest  of 
an  analysis,  or  reconstruction,  such  as  I  have  con- 
sidered a  desideratum,  is  quite  independent  of  any 
real  or  fancied  interest  in  the  thing  analyzed,  it  will 
not  be  regarded  as  a  breach  of  decorum  on  my  part 
to  show  the  modus  operandi  by  which  some  one  of  my 
own  works  was  put  together.  I  select  "The  Raven" 
as  the  most  generally  known.  It  is  my  design  to 
render  it  manifest  that  no  one  point  in  its  composi- 
tion is  referable  either  to  accident  or  intuition — that 
the  work  proceeded,  step  by  step,  to  its  completion 
with  the  precision  and  rigid  consequence  of  a  mathe- 
matical problem. 

Let  us  dismiss,  as  irrelevant  to  the  poem,  per  se,  the 
circumstance — or  say  the  necessity — which,  in  the 
first  place,  gave  rise  to  the  intention  of  composing  a 
poem  that  should  suit  at  once  the  popular  and  the 
critical  taste. 

We  commence,  then,  with  this  intention. 

The  initial  consideration  was  that  of  extent.  If 
any  literary  work  is  too  long  to  be  read  at  one  sit- 


APPENDIX  299 

ting,  we  must  be  content  to  dispense  with  the  im- 
mensely important  effect  derivable  from  unity  of  im- 
pression— for,  if  two  sittings  be  required,  the  affairs 
of  the  world  interfere,  and  everything  like  totality 
is  at  once  destroyed.  But  since,  ceteris  paribus,  no 
poet  can  afford  to  dispense  with  anything  that  may 
idvance  his  design,  it  but  remains  to  be  seen  whether 
there  is,  in  extent,  any  advantage  to  counterbalance 
the  loss  of  unity  which  attends  it.  Here  I  say  no,  at 
oice.  What  we  term  a  long  poem  is,  in  fact,  merely 
a  succession  of  brief  ones — that  is  to  say,  of  brief 
poetical  effects.  It  is  needless  to  demonstrate  that 
a  poem  is  such,  only  inasmuch  as  it  intensely  excites, 
by  elevating,  the  soul:  and  all  intense  excitements  are, 
through  a  psychal  necessity,  brief.  For  this  reason, 
at  Itast  one  half  of  the  "Paradise  Lost"  is  essentially 
proffi — a  succession  of  poetical  excitements  inter- 
spened,  inevitably,  with  corresponding  depressions — 
the  vhole  being  deprived,  through  the  extremeness 
of  itslength,  of  the  vastly  important  artistic  element, 
totaliy,  or  unity,  of  effect. 

It  ippears  evident,  then,  that  there  is  a  distinct 
limit,  as  regards  length,  to  all  works  of  literary  art — 
the  Unit  of  a  single  sitting — and  that,  although  in 
certaii  classes  of  prose  composition,  such  as  "  Robin- 
son Crasoe"  (demanding  no  unity),  this  limit  may 
be  advmtageously  overpassed,  it  can  never  properly 
be  ovepassed  in  a  poem.  Within  this  limit,  the  ex- 
tent of  a  poem  may  be  made  to  bear  mathematical 
relation  to  its  merit — in  other  words,  to  the  excite- 
ment.oi  elevation — again,  in  other  words,  to  the  de- 
gree of  :he  true  poetical  effect  which  it  is  capable  of 
produciig;  for  it  is  clear  that  the  brevity  must  be  in 
direct  r;tio  of  the  intensity  of  the  intended  effect: — 
this,  wi'h  one  proviso — that  a  certain  degree  of  dura- 
tion is  i)solutely  requisite  for  the  production  of  any 
effect  at  all. 


300  APPENDIX 

Holding  in  view  these  considerations,  as  well  as 
that  degree  of  excitement  which  I  deemed  not  above 
the  popular,  while  not  below  the  critical,  taste,  I 
reached  at  once  what  I  conceived  the  proper  length 
for  my  intended  poem — a  length  of  about  one  hun- 
dred lines.     It  is  in  fact  a  hundred  and  eight. 

My  next  thought  concerned  the  choice  of  an  im- 
pression, or  effect,  to  be  conveyed;  and  here  I  might 
as  well  observe  that,  throughout  the  construction,  } 
kept  steadily  in  view  the  design  of  rendering  tha 
work  universally  appreciable.  I  should  be  carried  toi) 
far  out  of  my  immediate  topic  were  I  to  demonstrate 
a  point  upon  which  I  have  repeatedly  insisted,  aid 
which,  with  the  poetical  stands  not  the  slightest  need 
of  demonstration — the  point  I  mean,  that  Beaut;"  is 
the  sole  legitimate  province  of  the  poem.  A  :'ew 
words,  however,  in  elucidation  of  my  real  meanng, 
which  some  of  my  friends  have  evinced  a  disposi:ion 
to  misrepresent.  The  pleasure  which  is  at  once  the 
most  intense,  the  most  elevating,  and  the  most  pure, 
is,  I  believe,  found  in  the  contemplation  of  the  beau- 
tiful. When  indeed  men  speak  of  Beauty,  they  nean, 
precisely,  not  a  quality,  as  is  supposed,  but  ai  ef- 
fect— they  refer,  in  short,  just  to  that  intense  and 
pure  elevation  of  soul — npt  of  intellect,  or  of  h<art — 
upon  which  I  have  commented,  and  which  is  experi- 
enced in  consequence  of  contemplating  "  the  teauti- 
ful."  Now  I  designate  Beauty  as  the  provhce  of 
the  poem,  merely  because  it  is  an  obvious  ruleof  Art 
that  effects  should  be  made  to  spring  from  direct 
causes — that  objects  should  be  attained  tlrough 
means  best  adapted  for  their  attainment — noone  as 
yet  having  been  weak  enough  to  deny  that  th<  pecu- 
liar elevation  alluded  to  is  most  readily  attainecin  the 
poem.  Now  the  object  Truth,  or  the  excitenent  of 
the  Heart,  are,  although  attainable,  to  a  certlin  de- 
gree, in  poetry,  far  more  readily  attainable  in  prose. 


APPENDIX  301 

Truth,  in  fact,  demands  a  precision,  and  Passion,  a 
homeliness  (the  truly  passionate  will  comprehend  me) 
which  are  absolutely  antagonistic  to  that  Beauty 
which,  I  maintain,  is  the  excitement,  or  pleasurable 
elevation,  of  the  soul.  It  by  no  means  follows  from 
anything  here  said,  that  passion  or  even  truth,  may 
not  be  introduced,  and  even  profitably  introduced, 
into  a  poem — for  they  may  serve  in  elucidation,  or 
aid  the  general  effect,  as  do  discords  in  music,  by 
contrast — but  the  true  artist  will  always  contrive, 
first,  to  tone  them  into  proper  subservience  to  the 
predominant  aim,  and,  secondly,  to  enveil  them  as 
far  as  possible,  in  that  Beauty  which  is  the  atmos- 
phere and  the  essence  of  the  poem. 

Regarding,  then.  Beauty  as  my  province,  my  next 
question  referred  to  the  tone  of  its  highest  mani- 
festation— and  all  experience  has  shown  that  this 
tone  is  one  of  sadness.  Beauty  of  whatever  kind,  in 
its  extreme  development  invariably  excites  the  sen- 
sitive soul  to  tears.  Melancholy  is  thus  the  most 
legitimate  of  all  the  poetical  tones. 

At  length,  the  province,  and  the  tone,  being  thus 
determined,  I  betook  myself  to  ordinary  induction, 
with  the  view  of  obtaining  some  artistic  piquancy 
which  might  serve  me  as  a  key-note  in  the  construc- 
tion of  the  poem — some  pivot  upon  which  the  whole 
structure  might  turn.  In  carefully  thinking  over  all 
the  usual  artistic  effects — or  more  properly  points,  in 
the  theatrical  sense — I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  im- 
mediately that  not  one  had  been  so  universally  em- 
ployed as  that  of  the  refrain.  The  universality  of 
its  employment  sufficed  to  assure  me  of  its  intrinsic 
value,  and  spared  me  ^he  necessity  of  submitting  it  to 
analysis.  I  considered  it,  however,  with  regard  to 
its  susceptibility  of  improvement,  and  soon  saw  it 
to  be  in  a  primitive  condition.  As  commonly  used, 
the  refrain,  or  burden,  not  only  is  limited  to  lyric 


302  APPENDIX 

verse,  but  depends  for  its  impression  upon  the  force 
of  monotone — both  in  sound  and  thought.  The 
pleasure  is  deduced  solely  from  the  sense  of  identity 
— of  repetition.  I  resolved  to  diversify,  and  so 
vastly  heighten,  the  effect^  by  adhering,  in  general, 
to  the  monotone  of  sound,  while  I  continually  varied 
that  of  thought;  that  is  to  say,  I  determined  to  pro- 
duce continuously  novel  effects,  by  the  variation  of 
the  application  of  the  refrain — the  refrain  itself  re- 
maining, for  the  most  part,  unvaried. 

These  points  being  settled,  I  next  bethought  me  of 
the  nature  of  my  refrain.  Since  its  application  was 
to  be  repeatedly  varied,  it  was  clear  that  the  refrain 
itself  must  be  brief,  for  there  would  have  been  an  in- 
surmountable difficulty  in  frequent  variations  of  ap- 
plication in  any  sentence  of  length.  In  proportion 
to  the  brevity  of  the  sentence,  would,  of  course,  be 
the  facility  of  the  variation.  This  led  me  at  once  to 
a  single  word  as  the  best  refrain. 

The  question  now  arose  as  to  the  character  of  the 
word.  Having  made  up  my  mind  to  a  refrain^  the 
division  of  the  poem  into  stanzas  was,  of  course,  a 
corollary;  the  refrain  forming  the  close  to  each  stanza. 
That  such  a  close,  to  have  force,  must  be  sonorous 
and  susceptible  of  protracted  emphasis,  admitted  no 
doubt;  and  these  considerations  inevitably  led  me 
to  the  long  o  as  the  most  sonorous  vowel,  in  connec- 
tion with  r  as  the  most  producible  consonant. 

The  sound  of  the  refrain  being  thus  determined,  it 
became  necessary  to  select  a  word  embodying  this 
sound,  and  at  the  same  time  in  the  fullest  possible 
keeping  with  the  melancholy  which  I  had  predeter- 
mined as  the  tone  of  the  poem.  In  such  a  search  it 
would  have  been  absolutely  impossible  to  overlook 
the  word  "Nevermore."  In  fact,  it  was  the  very 
first  which  presented  itself. 

The  next  desideratum  was  a  pretext  for  the  con- 


APPENDIX  303 

tinuous  use  of  the  one  word  "Nevermore."  In  ob- 
serving the  difficulty  which  I  at  once  found  in  invent- 
ing a  sufficiently  plausible  reason  for  its  continuous 
repetition,  I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  that  this  diffi- 
culty arose  solely  from  the  pre-assumption  that  the 
word  was  to  be  so  continuously  or  monotonously 
spoken  by  a  human  being — I  did  not  fail  to  perceive, 
in  short,  that  the  difficulty  lay  in  the  reconciliation 
of  this  monotony  with  the  exercise  of  reason  on  the 
part  of  the  creature  repeating  the  word.  Here  then, 
immediately,  arose  the  idea  of  a  non-resLSoning  crea- 
ture capable  of  speech;  and  very  naturally,  a  parrot, 
in  the  first  instance,  suggested  itself,  but  was  super- 
seded forthwith  by  a  Raven,  as  equally  capable  of 
speech,  and  infinitely  more  in  keeping  with  the  in- 
tended tone. 

I  had  now  gone  so  far  as  the  conception  of  a 
Raven — the  bird  of  ill  omen — monotonously  repeat- 
ing the  one  word  "Nevermore"  at  the  conclusion 
of  each  stanza,  in  a  poem  of  melancholy  tone,  and  in 
length  about  one  hundred  lines.  Now,  never  losing 
sight  of  the  object,  supremeness,  or  perfection,  at  all 
points,  I  asked  myself — "Of  all  melancholy  topics, 
what,  according  to  the  universal  understanding  of 
mankind,  is  the  most  melancholy?"  Death — was 
the  obvious  reply.  "And  when,"  I  said,  "is  this 
most  melancholy  of  topics  most  poetical?"  From 
what  I  have  already  explained  at  some  length,  the 
answer,  here  also,  is  obvious — "When  it  most  closely 
allies  itself  to  Beauty:  the  death,  then,  of  a  beautiful 
woman  is,  unquestionably,  the  most  poetical  topic 
in  the  world — and  equally  is  it  beyond  doubt  that 
the  lips  best  suited  for  such  topic  are  those  of  a 
bereaved  lover." 

I  had  now  to  combine  the  two  ideas,  of  a  lover 
lamenting  his  deceased  mistress  and  a  Raven  con- 
tinuously repeating  the  word  "Nevermore." — I  had 


304  APPENDIX 

to  combine  these,  bearing  in  mind  my  design  of  vary- 
ing at  every  turn,  the  application  of  the  word  re- 
peated; but  the  only  intelligible  mode  of  such  combi- 
nation is  that  of  imagining  the  Raven  employing  the 
word  in  answer  to  the  queries  of  the  lover.  And 
here  it  was  that  I  saw  at  once  the  opportunity  af- 
forded for  the  effect  on  which  I  had  been  depending 
— that  is  to  say,  the  effect  of  the  variation  of  applica- 
tion. I  saw  that  I  could  make  the  first  query  pro- 
pounded by  the  lover — the  first  query  to  which  the 
Raven  should  reply  "Nevermore" — that  I  could 
make  tliis  first  query  a  commonplace  one — the  sec- 
ond less  so — the  third  still  less,  and  so  on — until  at 
length  the  lover,  startled  from  his  original  noncha- 
lance by  the  melancholy  character  of  the  word  itself 
— by  its  frequent  repetition — and  by  a  consideration 
of  the  ominous  reputation  of  the  fowl  that  uttered  it 
— is  at  length  excited  to  superstition,  and  wildly  pro- 
pounds queries  of  a  far  different  character — queries 
whose  solution  he  has  passionately  at  heart — pro- 
pounds them  half  in  superstition  and  half  in  that 
species  of  despair  which  delights  in  self-torture — 
propounds  them  not  altogether  because  he  believes 
in  the  prophetic  or  demoniac  character  of  the  bird 
(which,  reason  assures  him,  is  merely  repeating  a 
lesson  learned  by  rote)  but  because  he  experiences  a 
phrenzied  pleasure  in  so  modelling  his  questions  as 
to  receive  from  the  expected  "Nevermore"  the  most 
delicious  because  the  most  intolerable  of  sorrow. 
Perceiving  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  me — or 
more  strictly,  thus  forced  upon  me  in  the  progress 
of  the  construction — I  first  established  in  mind  the 
climax,  or  concluding  query — that  to  which  "Never- 
more" should  be  in  the  last  place  an  answer — that  in 
reply  to  which  this  word  "Nevermore"  should  in- 
volve the  utmost  conceivable  amount  of  sorrow  and 
despair. 


APPENDIX  305 

Here  then  the  poem  may  be  said  to  have  its  begin- 
ning— at  the  end,  where  all  works  of  art  should 
begin — for  it  was  here,  at  this  point  of  my  preconsid- 
erations,  that  I  first  put  pen  to  paper  in  the  compo- 
sition of  the  stanza: 

"  Prophet,"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  1  prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we 

both  adore,  ' 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore ; 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

I  composed  this  stanza,  at  this  point,  first  that,  by 
establishing  a  climax,  I  might  the  better  vary  and 
graduate,  as  regards  seriousness  and  importance,  the 
preceding  queries  of  the  lover — and,  secondly,  that  I 
might  definitely  settle  the  rhythm,  the  metre,  and  the 
length  and  general  arrangement  of  the  stanza — as 
well  as  graduate  the  stanzas  which  were  to  precede, 
so  that  none  of  them  might  surpass  this  in  rhyth- 
mical effect.  Had  I  been  able,  in  the  subsequent 
composition,  to  construct  more  vigorous  stanzas, 
I  should  without  scruple,  have  purposely  enfeebled 
them,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  climacteric 
effect. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  say  a  few  words  of  the  versi- 
fication. My  first  object  (as  usual)  was  originality. 
The  extent  to  which  this  has  been  neglected,  in  ver- 
sification, is  one  of  the  most  unaccountable  things  in 
the  world.  Admitting  that  there  is  little  possibility 
of  variety  in  rhythm,  it  is  still  clear  that  the  possible 
varieties  of  metre  and  stanza  are  absolutely  infinite — 


3o6  APPENDIX 

and  yet,  for  centuries  no  man,  in  verse,  has  ever  done, 
or  ever  seemed  to  think  of  doing,  an  original  thing.  The 
fact  is,  originality  (unless  in  minds  of  very  unusual 
force)  is  by  no  means  a  matter,  as  some  suppose,  of 
impulse  or  intuition.  In  general,  to  be  found,  it 
must  be  elaborately  sought,  and  although  a  positive 
merit  of  the  highest  class,  demands  in  its  attainment 
less  of  invention  than  negation. 

Of  course,  I  pretend  to  no  originality  in  either  the 
rhythm  or  metre  of  the  **  Raven."  The  former 
is  trochaic — the  latter  is  octameter  acatalectic, 
alternating  with  heptameter  catalectic  repeated  in 
the  refrain  of  the  fifth  verse,  and  terminating  with 
tetrameter  catalectic.  Less  pedantically — the  feet 
employed  throughout  (trochees)  consist  of  a  long  syl- 
lable followed  by  short;  the  first  line  of  the  stanza 
consists  of  eight  of  these  feet — the  second  of  seven 
and  a  half  ( in  effect  two-thirds) — the  third  of  eight — 
the  fourth  of  seven  and  a  half — the  fifth  the  same — 
the  sixth  three  and  a  half.  Now  each  of  these  lines, 
taken  individually,  has  been  employed  before  and 
what  originaUty  the  "Raven"  has,  is  in  their  com- 
bination into  stanza;  nothing  even  remotely  ap- 
proaching this  combination  has  ever  been  attempted. 
The  effect  of  this  originality  of  combination  is  aided 
by  other  unusual,  and  some  altogether  novel  effects, 
arising  from  an  extension  of  the  application  of  the 
principles  of  rhyme  and  alliteration. 

The  next  point  to  be  considered  was  the  mode  of 
bringing  together  the  lover  and  the  Raven — and  the 
first  branch  of  this  consideration  was  the  locale.  For 
this  the  most  natural  suggestion  might  seem  to  be  a 
forest,  or  the  fields — but  it  has  always  appeared  to 
me  that  a  close  circumscription  of  space  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  effect  of  insulated  incident: — it  has 
the  force  of  a  frame  to  a  picture.  It  has  an  indis- 
putable moral  power  in  keeping  concentrated  the  at- 


APPENDIX  307^ 

tention,  and,  of  course,  must  not  be  confounded  with 
mere  unity  of  place. 

I  determined,  then,  to  place  the  lover  in  his  cham- 
ber— in  a  chamber  rendered  sacred  to  him  by  memo- 
ries of  her  who  had  frequented  it.  The  room  is  rep- 
resented as  richly  furnished — this  in  mere  pursuance 
of  the  ideas  I  have  already  explained  on  the  subject 
of  Beauty,  as  the  sole  true  poetical  thesis. 

The  locale  being  thus  determined,  I  had  now  to  in- 
troduce the  bird — and  the  thought  of  introducing 
him  through  the  window,  was  inevitable.  The  idea 
of  making  the  lover  suppose,  in  the  first  instance,  that 
the  flapping  of  the  wings  against  the  shutter,  is  a 
''tapping"  at  the  door,  originated  in  a  wish  to  in- 
crease, by  prolonging,  the  reader's  curiosity,  and  in  a 
desire  to  admit  the  incidental  effect  arising  from  the 
lover's  throwing  open  the  door,  finding  all  dark,  and 
thence  adopting  the  half-fancy  that  it  was  the  spirit 
of  his  mistress  that  knocked. 

I  made  the  night  tempestuous,  first,  to  account  for 
the  Raven's  seeking  admission,  and  secondly,  for  the 
effect  of  contrast  with  the  (physical)  serenity  within 
the  chamber. 

I  made  the  bird  alight  on  the  bust  of  Pallas,  also 
for  the  effect  of  contrast  between  the  marble  and  the 
plumage — it  being  understood  that  the  bust  was  ab- 
solutely suggested  by  the  bird — the  bust  of  Pallas 
being  chosen,  first,  as  most  in  keeping  with  the  schol- 
arship of  the  lover,  and,  secondly,  for  the  sonorous- 
ness of  the  word,  Pallas,  itself. 

About  the  middle  of  the  poem,  I  have  availed  my- 
self of  the  force  of  contrast,  with  a  view  of  deepening 
the  ultimate  impression.  For  example,  an  air  of 
the  fantastic — approaching  as  nearly  to  the  ludi- 
crous as  was  admissible — is  given  to  the  Raven's 
entrance.  He  comes  in  "with  many  a  flirt  and 
flutter." 


3o8  APPENDIX 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he — not  a  moment  stopped 

or  stayed  he, 
But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber 

door. 

In  the  two  stanzas  which  follow,  the  design  is  more 
obviously  carried  out: — 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smil- 
ing 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 

"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the 
nightly  shore — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night*s  Plu- 
tonian shore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 

plainly. 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber 

dooff 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

The  effect  of  the  denouement  being  thus  provided 
for,  I  immediately  drop  the  fantastic  for  a  tone  of  the 
most  profound  seriousness: — this  tone  commencing 
in  the  stanza  directly  following  the  one  last  quoted, 
with  the  line, 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke 
only,  etc. 

From  this  epoch  the  lover  no  longer  jests — no 
longer  sees  anything  even  of  the  fantastic  in  the 


APPENDIX  309 

Raven's  demeanor.  He  speaks  of  him  as  a  "grim, 
ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore," 
and  feels  the  "fiery  eyes"  burning  into  his  "bosom's 
core."  This  revolution  of  thought  or  fancy,  on  the 
lover's  part,  is  intended  to  induce  a  similar  one  on  the 
part  of  the  reader — to  bring  the  mind  into  a  proper 
frame  for  the  denouement — which  is  now  brought 
about  as  rapidly  and  as  directly  as  possible. 

With  the  denouement  proper — with  the  Raven's 
reply,  "Nevermore,"  to  the  lover's  final  demand  if  he 
shall  meet  his  mistress  in  another  world — the  poem, 
in  its  obvious  phase,  that  of  a  simple  narrative,  may 
be  said  to  have  its  completion.  So  far,  everything 
is  within  the  limits  of  the  accountable — of  the  real. 
A  raven,  having  learned  by  rote  the  single  word 
"Nevermore,"  and  having  escaped  from  the  custody 
of  its  owner,  is  driven  at  midnight,  through  the  vio- 
lence of  a  storm,  to  seek  admission  at  a  window  from 
which  a  light  still  gleams — the  chamber-window  of 
a  student,  occupied  half  in  poring  over  a  volume, 
half  in  dreaming  of  a  beloved  mistress  deceased. 
The  casement  being  thrown  open  at  the  fluttering  of 
the  bird's  wings,  the  bird  itself  perches  on  the  most 
convenient  seat  out  of  the  immediate  reach  of  the 
student,  who,  amused  by  the  incident  and  the  oddity 
of  the  visitor's  demeanor,  demands  of  it  in  jest  and 
without  looking  for  a  reply,  its  name.  The  raven 
addressed,  answers  with  its  customary  word,  "Nev- 
ermore"— a  word  which  finds  immediate  echo  in  the 
melancholy  heart  of  the  student,  who,  giving  utter- 
ance aloud  to  certain  thoughts  suggested  by  the  oc- 
casion, is  again  startled  by  the  fowl's  repetition  of 
"Nevermore."  The  student  now  guesses  the  state 
of  the  case,  but  is  impelled  as  I  have  before  ex- 
plained, by  the  human  thirst  for  self-torture,  and  in 
part  by  superstition,  to  propound  such  queries  to 
the  bird  as  will  bring  him,  the  lover,  the  most  of  the 


3IO  APPENDIX 

luxury  of  sorrow,  through  the  anticipated  answer 
"Nevermore."  With  the  indulgence,  to  the  ex- 
treme, of  this  self-torture,  the  narration,  in  what  I 
have  termed  its  first  or  obvious  phase,  has  a  natural 
termination,  and  so  far  there  has  been  no  overstep- 
ping of  the  limits  of  the  real. 

But  in  subjects  so  handled,  however  skilfully,  or 
with  however  vivid  an  array  of  incident,  there  is  al- 
ways a  certain  hardness  or  nakedness,  which  repels 
the  artistical  eye.  Two  things  are  invariably  re- 
quired— first,  some  amount  of  complexity,  or  more 
properly,  adaptation;  and,  secondly,  some  amount 
of  suggestiveness — some  under-current,  however  in- 
definite, of  meaning.  It  is  this  latter,  in  especial, 
which  imparts  to  a  work  of  art  so  much  of  that  rich- 
ness (to  borrow  from  colloquy  a  forcible  term)  which 
we  are  too  fond  of  confounding  with  the  ideal.  It 
is  the  excess  of  the  suggested  meaning — it  is  the  ren- 
dering this  the  upper  instead  of  the  undercurrent  of 
the  theme — which  turns  into  prose  (and  that  of  the 
very  flattest  kind)  the  so-called  poetry  of  the  so-called 
transcendentaHsts. 

Holding  these  opinions,  I  added  the  two  conclud- 
ing stanzas  of  the  poem — their  suggestiveness  being 
thus  made  to  pervade  all  the  narrative  which  has  pre- 
ceded them.  The  undercurrent  of  meaning  is  ren- 
dered first  apparent  in  the  lines — 

"Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door!" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  words,  "from  out  my 
heart,"  involved  the  first  metaphorical  expression  in 
the  poem.  They,  with  the  answer,  "Nevermore," 
dispose  the  mind  to  seek  a  moral  in  all  that  has  been 
previously  narrated.    The  reader  begins  now  to  re- 


APPENDIX  311 

gard  the  Raven  as  emblematical — but  it  is  not  until 
the  very  last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza,  that  the  in- 
tention of  making  him  emblematical  of  Mournful  and 
Never-ending  Remembrance  is  permitted  distinctly  to 
be  seen: 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sit- 
ting, 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 
door; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 
dreaming. 

And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow 
on  the  floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  thai  shadow  that  lies  floating  on 
the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermorel 


INDEX 


Accident,  place  of,  83,  91. 
Action,  stories  of,  198. 
Action,  unity  of.     See  Unity. 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  255. 
Another  Gambler,  241. 
Art  of  Fiction,  The,  164,  290. 
As  You  Like  It,  89,  170,  252. 
Austen,  Jane,  33,  252,  258. 
Autobiography.     See  Narra- 
tive. 

Beta,  Baa,  Black  Sheep,  50. 

Balzac,  26,  112. 

Barrie,  184,   185;    letter  to, 

from  Stevenson,  on  Little 

Minister,  249. 
Bazin,  Ren6,  165. 
Bennett,  Arnold,  32. 
Bjomson,  243. 
Black  Cat,  The,  212. 
Body-Snatcher,  The,  212. 
Bourget,  241. 
Bride  Comes  to  Yellow  Sky, 

The,  162. 
Brieux,  191. 
Bunner,  239. 

Caryll,  Guy  Wetmore,  88. 

Cask  of  Amontillado,  The: 
forces,  17;  point  of  view, 
22,  23;  unity  of  place,  56; 
exposition,  81;  prepara- 
tion, 85;  character  simpli- 
fication, 120. 


Centre  of  interest,  35. 

Character  Drawing:  incon- 
sistency in,  for  story  pur- 
pose, 87;  weak  motivation, 
89;  practice  of  Turgenieff, 
115;  conventional  char- 
acters, n6;  Hawthorne, 
117;  selection  in  character 
drawing,  118;  freedom  from 
inconsistencies,  118;  over- 
simplification, 120;  char- 
acters imaginatively  con- 
ceived, 122;  analysis  by 
author,  124;  characteriza- 
tion by  running  analysis, 
127;  actor-narrator's  anal- 
ysis, 129;  action  as  means 
of  character  revelation,  130; 
character  building,  131; 
analysis  of  Markheim,  132; 
variety  of  means  employed 
in  good  characterization, 
138;  illustration  from  Tur- 
genieff, 139;  personal  ap- 
pearance, 143;  character 
stories,  200;  character  ti- 
tles, 215;  titles  of  character 
and  place,  216. 

Cinderella:-:  outline  and  anal- 
ysis of  incidents,  9;  point 
of  view,  27. 

Clarissa  Harlowe,  24. 

Clayhanger,  32. 

Coincidence,  83,  86,  91. 


313 


314 


INDEX 


Collins,  Wilkie,  25. 

Conrad,  Joseph:  Youth,  point 
of  view,  22;  introduction, 
Heart  of  Darkness,  104,  205; 
departures  from  time  order, 
114,  260;  personal  descrip- 
tion, 146;  importance  of 
description  in  stories,  160; 
description  from  Youth, 
171. 

Coward,  The:  exposition  in, 
77;  preparation  in,  78; 
characterization  in,  127; 
type  of  character  story, 
202. 

Crane,  Stephen,  161,  163. 

Daudet,  236. 

De  Foe,  23,  160,  199. 

De  Morgan,  81. 

Description:  lack  of  corre- 
spondence between  writing 
and  seeing,  143;  avoidance 
of  personal  description  in 
stories,  144;  brief  personal 
descriptions,  146;  assist- 
ance of  reader  enlisted,  146; 
description  by  slow  accu- 
mulation of  details,  147; 
order  of  description  in 
scene  from  Master  of  Bal- 
lantrae,  148;  individual- 
izing details,  149;  elabo- 
rateness of  personal  descrip- 
tion dependent  on  length 
of  story,  149;  illustration 
from  The  Singers,  150;  un- 
due reliance  on  vision,  151; 
dress,  152;  surroundings 
indicative  of  personality, 
152;  description  of  back- 
ground,   153;    conciseness 


difficult,  154;  variety  o£ 
sense  impressions,  154;  or- 
der of  recording  details,  155; 
scene  described  through 
eyes  of  characters,  156; 
effect  of  mood  on  selection, 
156;  test  for  relevancy  in 
description,  156;  part  of 
emotion  in  description,  158; 
object  of  description  a  uni- 
fied emotional  impression, 
159;  descriptive  point  of 
view,  159;  importance  of 
description  in  modern  lit- 
erature, 160;  weakness  of 
impressionistic  description 
— Stephen  Crane,  161;  con- 
trast essential,  163;  descrip- 
tion not  to  be  considered  as 
separate  element  of  story 
but  as  fused  with  action, 
164;  citation  from  Henry 
James,  164;  illustration 
from  Bazin's  Redemption, 
165;  from  Tlie  Egoist,  167; 
Kipling,  171;  Conrad,  171; 
Douglas,  172. 

Detective  story,  92,  93. 

Dialect,  180,  182,  183. 

Dialogue:  as  a  means  of  ex- 
position, 74;  forced  for 
story  purpose,  76;  must  be 
individual,  175;  must  ad- 
vance story,  176;  must  be 
more  clear  than  speech  of 
reality,  177;  must  be 
swifter  than  colloquial 
speech,  178;  writer  makes 
it  interpretative,  not  literal, 
178;  literalness  of  speech, 
179;  departure  from  normal 
in  story  attracts  attention. 


INDEX 


3^5 


i8o;  all  variations  must  be 
deliberate,  i8o;  dialect, 
i8o;  modified  dialects,  i8i; 
place  of  dialect  stories,  182; 
growth  of  literalness  in  re- 
cording dialect,  183;  illus- 
aations  from:  Scott,  184, 
Barrie,  185,  Kipling,  186; 
standardized  speech,  187; 
degree  of  literalness  advis- 
able, 188;  peculiarities  of 
speech  not  essential  to  in- 
dividualization, 189;  "key 
of  dialogue"  discussed,  190; 
subject-matter  of  dialogue, 
191;  harmony  of  dialogue 
with  tone  of  story,  192,196; 
incongruities  of  reality, 
193;  selected  diction,  194; 
classes  of  words,  195;  neces- 
sity for  training  the  ear, 
196;  harmony  of  dialogue 
and  author's  narrative  in 
The  Ebb  Tide,  197. 

Diary.    See  Narrative. 

Dickens,  34,  222. 

Diction,  194. 

Douglas,  George,  172. 

Doyle,  Conan,  26. 

Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  282. 

Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Ajty 
The,  186. 

Dumas,  246. 

Ebb  Tide,  The,  197,  257. 

Egoist,  The,  167,  222. 

Eliot,  George,  29,  281. 

End  of  the  Tether,  The,  114. 

Exposition :  by  actor-narrator, 
65;  by  author-omniscient, 
68;  by  author-observant, 
70;  dialogue  as  a  means  of, 


74;  various  devices  of,  75; 
direct  exposition,  76;  place 
in  story,  77;  preparation, 
78;  inadequate  preparation 
in  Guy  Mannering,  79;  ex- 
position in  Cask  of  Amon- 
tillado, 81;  integral  part  of 
action,  83 ;  the  place  of  acci- 
dent, 83;  story  action  pre- 
dictable, 84;  coincidence, 
86;  inconsistency  of  char- 
acter, 87;  weak  motivation, 
89;  accident  a  violation  of 
story  logic,  90;  adequacy 
of  causation,  90;  when  ac- 
cident and  coincidence  are 
permissible,  91;  the  surprise 
story,  92;  structure  of  de- 
tective story,  92;  surprise 
prepared  for,  94;  The  Lady 
or  the  Tiger,  94;  problem  of 
introductions  due  in  part 
to  exposition,  96. 
Extravaganza,  254. 

Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher, 

The,  204. 
Fielding,  33,  38. 

Gold  Bug,  The,  42. 
Guy  Mannering,  79. 

Hamlet,  85,  130,  249,  252. 

Hardy,  222. 

Harrison,  Frederic,  281. 

Hawthorne:  point  of  view  in 
Scarlet  Letter,  32;  exposi- 
tion in  Scarlet  Letter,  75; 
oversimplification  of  char- 
acter, 117,  120;  title  of 
Scarlet   Letter,    220;     con- 


3i6 


INDEX 


sciously  artistic,  261;    use 

of  note-books,  287. 
Heart  of  Darkness^  104,  205. 
Henry,  O.,  95,  204,  256. 
Henry  Esmond,  235. 
Hermiston,  250. 
Hilda  Lessways,  32. 
House  with  the  Green  Shutters, 

The,  172. 
Howells,  75,  256,  258. 

Introductions:  complicated 
by  necessity  for  exposition, 
96;  characteristic  openings, 
97;  necessity  of  honest 
opening,  97;  philosophical 
opening,  99;  Sire  de  Mali- 
troii's  Door,  100;  Without 
Benefit  of  Clergy,  loi;  Tak- 
ing of  the  Redoubt,  102; 
Heart  of  Darkness,  104; 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue, 
108;  Thrown  Away,  109. 

James,  Henry:  115,  248;  quo- 
tations from  Art  of  Fiction, 
164,  290. 

Kipling:  time  transitions  in 
Baa,  Baa,  Black  Sheep,  50; 
exposition  in  Without  Bene- 
fit of  Clergy,  68,  77,  79,  8s; 
introduction  to  same,  loi; 
introduction  to  Thrown 
Away,  109;  journalistic 
method,  1 10;  order  of  nar- 
ration in  Man  Who  Would 
Be  King,  112;  personal  de- 
scription in,  145;  descrip- 
tion of  setting  in  Without 
Benefit  of  Clergy,  171;  dia- 
lect in  Drums  of  the  Fore 


and  Aft,  186;  Man  Who 
Would  Be  King,  action 
story,  199;  titles,  220; 
names,  226;  suggestion  in 
They,  23 1 ;  devices  for  sug- 
gestion, 240;  story  of  super- 
natural, 249;  concealment 
of  artistry,  259. 

Lady  or  the  Tiger,  The,  94. 

La  Grande  Breteche,  112. 

Lear  of  the  Steppes,  A,  124, 
201,  216. 

Leeby  and  Jamie,  185. 

Life,  departures  from,  in 
stories.     See  Selection. 

Ligeia,  223, 

Literary  classifications,  anal- 
ogy of,  to  gradations  of 
color,  2. 

Literary  power:  dependent  on 
freshness  of  impression  and 
truth  of  insight,  286;  train- 
ing of  observation,  287; 
development  of  power  of 
thought,  288;  what  a  story- 
writer  should  read,  289; 
sympathy  and  insight,  289; 
the  nature  of  experience, 
290;  limitation  of  endow- 
ment, 292;  example  of 
Stevenson,  292. 

Little  Minister,  The,  26,  249, 
251. 

Lodging  for  the  Night,  A,  202. 

Lorna  Doone,  22. 

Love  of  Romance,  The,  7a 

Macbeth,  235. 
Man  Who  Was,  the,  218. 
Man  Who  Would  Be  King, 
The,  H2,  199. 


INDEX 


317 


Man  without  a  Country,  The, 
209,  218. 

Markheim:  unity  of  action, 
39;  characterization  in, 
128,  132;  dialogue  to 
further  action,  176;  char- 
acter story,  202;  economy 
of  style,  230. 

Master  of  Ballantrae,  The, 
25,  148,  151. 

Maupassant:  time  in  Neck- 
lace, 49;  place  in  Piece  of 
String,  60;  exposition  in 
Coward,  77;  characteriza- 
tion in  Coward,  127;  Cow- 
ard, a  character  story,  202; 
Necklace,  a  story  of  idea, 
208;  Moonlight,  a  story  of 
emotional  effect,  212; 
theme  of  Necklace,  220; 
ending  of  Necklace,  229; 
philosophical  introduc- 
tions, 240;  stories  of  super- 
natural, 249;  training  in 
observation,  287. 

Memory:  part  played  in  se- 
lection, 7. 

Meredith,  George,  29,  167, 
222. 

M6rim6e,  103, 

Merry  Men,  The :  exposition 
in,  65,  77;  character  anal- 
ysis in,  129;  theme  of,  205; 
title,  216. 

Moonlight,  212. 

Moonstone,  The,  25. 

Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue, 
The,  108. 

Names  of  characters:  openly 
designating  character,  222; 
suggestive     of     character, 


223;  indicative  of  race  and 
class,  224;  associations  of 
given  names,  225;  neutral 
names,  226. 

Narrative,  the  essentials  of: 
definition,  6;  object  of 
autobiography,  7;  diary, 
8;  story  defined,  9;  rela- 
tion of  incidents  in  story, 
12-15;  comparison  with 
incidents  of  biography,  14; 
positive  and  negative 
forces,  17;  relation  of  story 
to  life,  19;  narrative  order, 
III. 

Narrative  order.     See  Order. 

Necklace,  The:  time  covered, 
49;  purpose  of,  208;  title 
of,  220;  ending  of,  229. 

Nesbit,  E.,  70. 

Ne Vinson,  261. 

Next  Corner,  The,  88. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  The,  34. 

Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel, 
The,  250,  251. 

Order  of  narration:  deviation 
from  time  order  in  novels, 
iii;  deviation  from  time 
order  in  short  stories,  112; 
Man  Who  Would  Be  King, 
112;  effectiveness  sole  jus- 
tification for  deviation, 
112;  La  Grande  Breteche, 
112;  End  of  the  Tether,  114. 

Othello,  s^,  130,  176. 

Our  Aromatic  Uncle,  239. 

Philosophy  of  Composition, 
The,  266;  quoted  in  Ap- 
pendix, 295. 

Piece  of  String,  The,  60. 


3i8 


INDEX 


Pilgrim's  Progress,  120. 

Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  The, 

55- 

Place,  names  of,  in  story 
titles,  215. 

Place,  unity  of.     See  Unity. 

Poe:  forces  in  Cask  of  Amon- 
tillado, 17;  point  of  view 
of  participant  in  action, 
22,  23;  unity  of  action  in 
Gold  Bug,  42;  unity  of 
place  in  Purloined  Letter, 
54,  in  Pit  and  Pendulum, 
55;  flow  of  scene  in  Cask 
of  Amontillado ,  $6;  exposi- 
tion in  same,  81,  85;  char- 
acter in  same,  120;  intro- 
duction to  Murders  in  Rue 
Morgue,  108;  theme  in 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher, 
204;  method  of  work  in 
Raven,  210;  Philosophy  of 
Composition  quoted  in  Ap- 
pendix, 295;  method  in 
stories,  212;  Ligeia,  223; 
consciously  artistic,  260, 

Point  of  view:  definition  of, 
21;  of  actor-narrator,  22; 
composite  narrative,  24; 
of  minor  character,  25;  a 
convention,  26;  of  author, 
27;  of  omniscient  author, 
28;  of  observant  author, 
28;  limited  omniscience, 
31;  relation  to  suggestion, 
^y,  of  obtrusive  author, 
33;  necessity  of  maintain- 
ing, 34;  relation  to  centre 
of  interest,  36;  determin- 
ing initial  exposition,  65, 
68,  70;  descriptive  point  of 
view,  159,  174;  relation  of 


point    of    view    to    tone, 

257- 

Preparation.    See  Exposition. 

Psychology  of  story  writing: 
necessity  for  theme,  266; 
sources  of  story  ideas,  267; 
action  theme  elaborated, 
268;  character  themes, 
269;  themes  derived  from 
place,  270;  themes  derived 
from  ideas,  270;  theme  of 
emotional  purpose  elabo- 
rated, 271;  story  growth, 
278;  conviction  and  sug- 
gestion result  of  slow 
growth,  279;  technic  a 
guide  to  imagination,  280; 
citation  from  George  Eliot's 
letters,  281;  Stevenson's 
method  in  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde,  282;  limitations 
of  analysis,  283. 

Purloined  Letter,  The,  54. 

Realism.     See  Selection. 
Red  Badge  of  Courage,  The, 

161. 
Redemption,  165. 
Restraint,  233. 
Resurrection,  38. 
Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,  The,  75. 
Robinson  Crusoe,  23, 160, 199. 
Rodin,  227. 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  85,  252. 

Scarlet  Letter,  The,  32,  75,  220. 

Schwob,  Marcel,  252. 

Scott,  79,  184,  246. 

Selection:  part  played  by 
memory,  7;  selection  of  in- 
cident essential  to  story 
structure,  9;    of  character 


INDEX 


319 


traits,  12,  118;  in  descrip- 
tion, 146, 149, 155;  effect  of 
mood  on  selection  in  de- 
scription, 156;  incongru- 
ities of  life  necessitating 
selection,  193;  speech  freed 
from  irrelevancies,  193; 
part  of  selection  in  diction, 
194,  196;  selection  in  char- 
acter stories,  201;  sugges- 
tion dependent  upon  selec- 
tion, 228,  242;  selection  in 
harmony  with  emotion 
creates  unity  of  tone,  245. 

Shakespeare:  tone  in  plays 
and  nature  of  preparation, 
85,  89,  249,  252;  charac- 
terization, 130;  dialogue, 
176,  191;   restraint,  234. 

Short  story:  inaccuracy  of 
definition  based  on  length, 
i;  uncertainty  of  defini- 
tion based  on  peculiarity 
of  form,  2;  analogy  to 
novel,  3;  technic  deter- 
mined by  analysis  of  ex- 
periments in  the  form,  5; 
defined  chiefly  in  terms  of 
unity  of  tone  and  single- 
ness of  impression,  284. 

Siege  of  Berlin,  The,  236. 

Simplification.  See  Selec- 
tion. 

Singers,  The,  150, 

Sire  de  Malitroit's  Door,  The, 
48,  100. 

Slum  Stories  of  London,  261. 

Somehow  Good,  81. 

Speech.    See  Dialogue. 

Stevenson:  point  of  view  in 
Treasure  Island,  24,  in 
Master  of  BaUantrae,   25; 


unity  of  action  in  Mark- 
heim,  39;  time  in  Sire  de 
MalHr oil's  Door,  48;  expo- 
sition in  Merry  Men,  65, 
77;  comment  on  prepara- 
tion in  Guy  Mannering,  79; 
introduction  to  Sire  de 
Malitroit's  Door,  100;  char- 
acterization in  Treasure 
Island,  116,  in  Merry  Men, 
129,  in  Markheim,  132;  de- 
scription of  person  in  Mas- 
ter of  BaUantrae,  148,  151; 
dialogue  to  advance  action 
in  Markheim,  176;  key  of 
dialogue,  190;  tone  in  Ebb 
Tide,  197,  257;  character 
stories,  202;  Merry  Men, 
a  story  of  place,  205; 
stories  of  emotional  effect, 
212;  stories  of  action,  246; 
discussion  of  tone  of  Little 
Minister  and  Richard  Fev- 
erel,  249;  Schwob  on  im- 
possible incidents  in  Ste- 
venson, 252;  artfulness  not 
always  effective,  260;  tone 
in  Will  0'  the  Mill,  263; 
abstract  origin  of  Jekyll  and 
Hyde,  282;  limitations  and 
inspiration  of  S.,  292. 

Stockton,  94,  260. 

Story:  definition  of,  9;  essen- 
tials of,  see  Narrative. 

Story  of  the  Physician  and  the 
Saratoga  Trunk,  126. 

Suggestion:  relation  to  point 
of  view,  33;  defined,  228; 
artful  ending,  229;  economy 
of  exposition,  230;  as  illus- 
trated in  They,  231;  re- 
straint as  suggestion,  233; 


320 


INDEX 


enlargemaiit  by  suggestion, 
235;  Daudet's  Siege  of  Ber- 
lin, 236;  incidents  antece- 
dent or  auxiliary  to  story, 
239;  generalized  or  philo- 
sophical introduction,  240; 
necessity  of  creating  more 
than  is  put  in  story,  240; 
Bourget's  Another  Gambler, 
241;  suggestion  dependent 
upon  experience  of  reader, 
242;  power  of  realism  in 
suggestion,  242;  difl&culty 
of  appreciating  foreign  lit- 
erature, 243;  suggestion  de- 
mands slow  story  growth, 
279. 

Suicide  Club,  The,  212,  218. 

Supernatural,  story  of,  247, 
258. 

Surprise  story,  92,  254. 

Taking  of  the  Redoubt,  The, 
102. 

Tatydna  Borisovna  and  Her 
Nephew,  139. 

Technic:  guide  to  imagina- 
tion, 280;  necessity  of,  285; 
inadequacy  of  inspiration, 
285,  293. 

Thackeray,  33,  235. 

Themes  for  stories.  See 
Types  of  story  ideas. 

They,  220,  231. 

Thrown  Away,  109. 

Time  order.  See  Order  of 
narration. 

Time,  unity  of.     See  Unity. 

Titles:  drawn  from  name  of 
chief  character,  214;  char- 
acter name  and  suggested 
situation,    215;    names   of 


place,  2 is;  names  of  char- 
acter and  place,  216;  liter- 
ary and  allusive  titles,  217; 
too  explicit  titles,  218;  the 
concrete  title,  219;  length 
of  title,  221;  titles  of  fairy 
tales,  221. 

Tolstoy,  38,  243. 

Tom  Jones,  S3,  38. 

Tone:  determining  nature  of 
denouement,  85;  necessity 
of  dialogue  harmonizing 
with,  192;  unity  of  tone, 
see  Unity. 

Treasure  Island,  24,  116. 

Turgenieff:  point  of  view  of 
minor  character,  26;  method 
of  realizing  character,  115; 
characterization  in  A  Lear  of 
the  Steppes,  124;  in  Tatydna 
Borisovna,  139;  personal 
description  in  The  Singers, 
150;  method  of  work,  201; 
use  of  philosophical  gener- 
alization for  suggestion, 
240;  universality,  243. 

Turn  of  the  Screw,  The,  249. 

Twelfth  Night,  252. 

Types  of  story  ideas:  division 
on  basis  of  story  inception 
into  five  groups,  198;  stories 
of  action,  198;  method  of 
developing  action  theme, 
199;  character  themes,  200; 
development  of  character 
theme,  201 ;  story  of  setting, 
202;  development  of  story 
from  setting,  203;  setting 
in  contrast  with  character 
and  action,  203,  204;  stories 
of  setting  cited,  204;  stories 
of  idea,   204;  Necklace  as 


INDEX 


321 


tjT)e  of  idea  story,  208; 
idea  stories  cited,  209; 
stories  of  emotional  effect, 
a  10;  examples  of  emotion 
stories,  312. 

Unity  of  action:  in  character 
themes,  38;  in  stories  of 
incident,  42;  analysis  of 
Gold  Bug,  42;  a  form  of  sim- 
plicity, 44. 

Unity  of  place:  why  desirable, 
53;  transition  in  Purloined 
Letter,  54;  analysis  of  Cask 
of  Amontillado ,  56;  likeness 
of  flow  of  scene  to  that  of 
time,  56;  effect  on  reader 
of  transitions  in  time  and 
place,  58;  lack  of  specific 
setting,  60;  repetition  of 
scenes,  60;  analysis  of 
Piece  of  String,  60. 

Unity  of  time:  desirability  of, 
45;  foreshortening,  46;  limi- 
tation imposed  by  experi- 
ence, 47;  analysis  of  Neck- 
lace, 49;  of  Baa,  Baa,  Black 
Sheep,  so;  Othello,  52. 

Unity  of  tone:  determining 
nature  of  story's  denoue- 
ment, 85;  necessity  of  dia- 
logue harmonizing  with, 
192;  definition,  244;  emo- 
tional intent  in  harmony 
with  theme,  245;  rational- 


ized story  of  supernatural, 
247;  maintenance  of  estab- 
lished tone,  249;  citation 
from  Stevenson  on  Little 
Minister  and  Richard  Fev- 
er el,  249;  tone  in  Shake- 
speare's plays,  252;  Schwob 
on  realism  of  Stevenson, 
252;  credibility  the  test  of 
action,  254;  extravaganza, 
254;  relation  of  point  of 
view  to  tone  {Ehh  Tide), 
256;  setting  in  relation  to 
tone,  257;  tone  of  seeming 
artlessness,  259;  Kipling's 
journalistic  tone,  260;  con- 
scious artistry  of  Poe  and 
Stevenson,  260;  natural 
tone  of  Nevinson's  Slum 
Stories  of  London,  261;  tone 
in  Wm  0'  the  Mill,  263. 

Vanity  Fair,  235. 

Wandering  Willie^s  Tale,  184. 

Will  0'  the  Mill,  263. 

Without  Benefit  of  Clergy: 
exposition  and  preparation 
in,  68,  77,  79,  85;  introduc- 
tion to,  loi;  description  of 
place  in,  171;  title  of,  220; 
names  of  characters,  226. 

Yonge,  Charlotte  M.,  98. 
Youth,  22,  171. 


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